


Beautiful Destruction

by Accidental_Ducky



Series: Beautiful Monsters [5]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: AU in places, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Murder, Taylor is pretty Done™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: It feels like coming home, the darkness inside of her calming for the first time since she set foot in North Carolina, lying still and quiet. A voice sounding suspiciously like hers hisseshere there be monsters.
Series: Beautiful Monsters [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/591268
Kudos: 4





	1. A Dark and Stormy Night

****

**2019**

Taylor hates ghost stories now, hates that whole dark and stormy night schtick that Hollywood won't let die. More than that, she really fucking hates that Michael is the Antichrist and they find this out on a dark and stormy night. He's never going to let that drop. She'll be eighty, the world will be ashes beneath her shoes, and he'll still be holding that cliché over her head like it's the funniest thing in the world. Right now, though, firmly in the present as he bites into a fresh heart, it's…. Fitting.

Storm clouds and rain and a murder of crows circling outside are all part of the atmosphere as Michael sinks his teeth back into the heart and blood drips down his arm. It's making a small puddle at his feet and Moira will have a conniption fit when she sees it. Behind Michael, thrown against the wall like a shadow, a beast unfurls with horns and wings and clawed fingers that twitch and move. Around her wrist, Eve tightens and writhes and hisses like it never has before. The Adder's never reacted quite like this, wrapping tighter and tighter until Taylor's fingers begin to go cold before loosening all at once as Michael's eyes turn black as pitch.

The three that found them, the Satanists, all bow in reverence, like they're seeing the face of God for the first time in their lives. She supposes that's not too far from the truth, it almost makes her laugh. She swallows it down and moves to stand in front of him, reaching out a steady hand to cup his smooth cheek. Michael blinks and his eyes are blue again, almost glowing in the firelight.

His lips twitch up in a smile, a cold and ruthless thing that should make Taylor afraid. It should terrify her and send her to her knees to beg forgiveness. Instead, she presses a kiss to his forehead and relishes the fire burning under his skin, an inferno of warmth. When she pulls back, he's grinning like a little boy.

"I told you eating a heart was a literal thing," he says, insufferably smug. Taylor just crosses her arms over her chest with a huff.

"Well, it wasn't served on a silver platter." It had been in a little metal bowl, carefully pilfered from a morgue. Outside, the storm grows louder and she turns before Michael can bring up that stupid cliché, moving to the front door and swinging it open in time for hail to start falling from the sky.

"I caused this. Isn't it beautiful?"

"And there fell upon men a great hail out of heaven, every stone about the weight of a talent: and men blasphemed God because of the plague of the hail; for the plague thereof was exceedingly great." Michael is quiet beside her and they stand in the doorway until the sky begins to turn pink, the rain slowly letting up until it's nothing but a light sheen on the grass.

"Will you finish the heart? Be like me forever?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine being what I am." _Whatever that is_. She doesn't even care right now, she just wants to curl up somewhere dark and warm, away from the damp outside. "Let's go sleep for a few hours. Then we'll leave this place."

"My mother…."

"She'll be fine," Taylor assures him. "She has her brother and that other guy that died here a year ago." Marco is a sweet guy, all soft edges and everything that Tabitha isn't. He brings out good things in her, and when she smiles now it's like clouds parting to reveal sunshine. There are still moments of rage, times when she drives her fist through a wall or a tire iron against her father's knees. Marco takes the edge off of that, he hugs her until the rage dies down and she actually lets him.

"That's true." Michael heaves a sigh and turns his back on the blushing sky, heading upstairs to the master bedroom. Taylor hangs back for a second longer before following suit, heading into Violet's room and curling up in a sleeping bag. Eve slithers farther into the sleeping bag until it can wrap around her ankle, safe and cold.

_And I saw one of his heads as if it had been mortally wounded, and his deadly wound was healed. And all the world marveled and followed the beast._

**2021**

The day the world ends starts out with waffles.

Taylor is freshly graduated from a culinary school, knows how to make most of anything, but waffles on Tuesdays are tradition. She decorates them with slices of strawberries and whipped cream, only using a small amount of syrup to keep everything in place.

Michael sits at the kitchen table with the glasses of orange juice, dressed in black from head to toe apart from the splash of pale blue from his scarf. It matches his eyes, a deliberate choice he was completely against until Taylor threw it at his head and told him to wear it or make his own waffles. Since the kid can burn water, he put the damn scarf on.

"We'll have to get you to a bunker soon," he says, watching as she brings their plates to the table. "I don't want to chance you being out in the open when the Blast happens."

"But you won't stay with me." It's not a question, it's a statement of fact. The grass is green, the sun is warm, and Michael Langdon wants to watch the neighborhood get razed to the ground. She lets out a soft sigh and begins to pick at her breakfast, not really feeling up to eating. Michael, on the other hand, has chipmunk cheeks as he stuffs a whole ass waffle into his mouth.

"Miss Crowe needs to be looked after."

"So do you." She reaches out with a napkin to wipe the syrup off his chin, smiling fondly all the same. "You might be the Antichrist, but you're my little cousin first and foremost." Taylor drops the napkin to the tabletop, leaning back in her seat. "If I don't watch over you, no one will."

"My Father will."

"Your Father is a temperamental pain in my ass." The sky thunders overhead and she rolls her eyes with nearly enough force to pull something. "Fuck off, Satan, you know it's true." There's another rumble, softer this time. Taylor grins over at her cousin, a predatory thing. "I'm winning him over, I can feel it."

"Yes, I'm sure he can't wait until you meet him face-to-face." She snorts and spears a strawberry on her fork, nibbling on it. Michael's smile fades slowly into a worried frown, but he keeps eating and she lets it go for now. They'll see each other again eventually, he vowed it to her in blood.

When their plates are empty and clean, Taylor stares out the front door at the sky. It's a gorgeous blue, no clouds in sight to muffle the bright sunshine. She likes how it feels on her skin, craving any and all warmth. She's just so _cold_ all the time, like a corpse that doesn't know it's dead yet.

She'll have to leave soon, she knows it, but it doesn't stop her from enjoying this view one last time. The neighbors across the street working in their garden, a sprinkler watering the grass somewhere down the way, a little girl's laughter floating on the cool breeze. It's perfect. Then there's an ugly blotch on the horizon, transforming into a SUV that parks curbside, a pair of black-suited escorts in the front.

"Did you really have to go with the Men in Black theme," she asks, turning her face up towards Michael. "It doesn't match the Victorian elegance of everything else."

"Let our lucky survivors have this one last modern thing." He's got his hands clasped behind his back and the scarf is still neatly tucked into his coat. Taylor's dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a blue hoodie, the words _Ohana Means Family_ printed across the top in white. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be." She grabs her lone bag and brings it with her to the SUV, Michael opening her door for her. The interior of the car is nice, leather seats and a new car smell, but it doesn't compare to the smell of autumn leaves. She'll never get to smell that again if Michael's plan works out.

"I'll come visit you as soon as I can."

"I know."

"And I'll text you every night to make sure you're okay. Thank God that _some_ spells can be used for modern things."

"Yeah, not being able to play Plague Inc. would really make the apocalypse boring." He lets out a huff of laughter, nuzzling his cheek against hers. "Be safe." Michael sucks in a trembling breath and nods, stepping away. He looks like he wants to yank her back out of the car and keep her with him forever, but there's a loud clap of thunder overhead and his shoulders sag just the slightest.

"I love you, Tay."

"Love you too, Mikey." And then her door is slammed shut and the car is taking off at a breakneck pace, smooth asphalt changing to unpaved roads the farther they go, leaving Los Angeles behind them in a spray of dust. Taylor doesn't cry, just watches the scenery change out her window until the car stops five hours later. When she gets out again, the sky is a blood red, clouds gathering thickly in the east. The end is coming, will be here within the hour if Taylor has to guess. She'll be flown to the Outpost once the Blast is over, a little plane purchased in advance.

 _One last modern thing_.

"Miss Valiente," says Agent Kay," it's time to get inside."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Outfits](https://www.deviantart.com/thenewfiredancer/gallery/74341043/beautiful-destruction-clothes)


	2. In Death Around Thee

**2015**

_"It was the bad lady that hurt me…."_ Michael's head snaps up at the familiar voice, the one he hears sometimes when he dreams. He gets up and follows it downstairs to the living room, finding his grandma relaxing on the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and the TV controller in the other.

"Grandma, who's that," he asks, coming around the couch to see better. There's a little girl and a man on the screen, both sharing light brown skin and frowns. He knows the girl from somewhere, the thing inside him demands he recognize her, but he's only four and he can't even cross the street by himself yet.

"That's your cousin, sweetheart," Grandma answers, patting the cushion next to her. Michael curls up right in her lap instead, cheek pressed against her shoulder as they watch the interview play out. "This is called My Roanoke Nightmare, it's their little ghost story from North Carolina."

"We got ghosts next door." She shoots him a look and he gives her a dimpled grin in return as he corrects himself. "We _have_ ghosts next door."

"Yes we do, but that's our little secret." He nods solemnly, focusing his gaze back on the screen. It's rare that he's actually allowed to watch TV, but maybe this is because it's their family that's being filmed. "Doesn't she look like Tabitha?" Michael knows the question isn't aimed at him, that it's just his grandma musing on what Mommy might have been like without the darkness.

"She's special, you know." Grandma's eyes flick down to him, blue eyes so pretty in the moonlight streaming in through the curtains. Michael's always thought that his grandma is pretty, like an older version of his mommy. "She can talk to me when she's asleep."

"Are you pulling my leg?"

"I'm sitting on your leg, Gramma." She huffs out a surprised laugh at that and holds him tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I don't think she knows that she's doing it. Last time she told me all about how to make the perfect chocolate chip waffles and then said she's going to be an avocado at law slash chef when she's all grown up."

"And what did you tell her?"

"That I'd help her do anything she wants." Grandma hums in response as the camera zooms in closer on his cousin's face. She's older than him by a couple of years, dark smudges under her eyes from a lack of sleep. She looks like she's going to blow away in a strong wind and her daddy doesn't look strong enough to keep her on the ground. Michael is, though. He'll help her do everything.

 _"I still want to make her hurt like she made us. I_ will _do it one day."_

**2021**

The first month passes in a blur of colors and silks and insults thrown over a dinner table. Pippa does her best to keep her head down, stay unnoticed in spite of the flamboyant dresses in her wardrobe. Purple suits her, brings out the hints of blue in her eyes, and she has an entire dresser filled to bursting with accessories and jewelry that makes Bailey turn green.

Still, Pippa doesn't much care for making people jealous when she can avoid it. She's not a vain person by nature, can do without diamond studded tiaras and the like. She gives half of her wardrobe to Bailey just to get the other girl off her back, but the one thing she refuses to let go is her private bathroom. They'll have to pry the hot water out of her cold dead hands.

There are five residents of Outpost Two in all, three of them pedestrians like Pippa, and the other two working for some mysterious entity known only as The Cooperative. She'd tried googling the company on her second day in North Carolina, using the phone she found under her pillow with a bright green sticky note simply reading _I chose this color just because you hate it, dear. Don't tell the others about this phone –xx_ and the only thing that came up was an article on getting small children to cooperate.

She's not gonna lie, the article came in handy when Bailey and Tanya O'Reilly arrived a day later.

"Philippa," calls a man's voice from the other side of her door, friendly. "Are you coming down for supper?"

"I'll be down in a minute," she calls back. She's lounging on her bed, comfortable in the clothes she came here in almost a month ago. The sleeves of her top are frayed in places, obviously well-worn even if she doesn't remember when she bought it. She doesn't remember a lot of things, what her parents looked like or who would have left her a phone under her pillow in a place so obviously hidden.

With a sigh, she forces herself out of bed and down the stairs to the dining room, taking a seat next to the resident muscle. Ellison Falls is one of the two people that work for The Cooperative, tight-lipped on the subject but good for a game of checkers every now and then.

"Finished daydreaming up in your tower," he asks, a teasing smile making his full lips twitch upwards. He's beautiful, dark-skinned and muscular and sweet as a kitten. Ellison boasts short-shorn hair the same color of brown as his eyes, his dexterous fingers always running over it like he's used to longer hair.

"Never." The door opens once again to let Bailey and Tanya come in, both brunettes with a similar build. They look like they should be maidens in a fantasy novel, flowers weaved into their hair and men pining after them. Beren would bring their father one of the Silmarils just for the chance of marrying one of them. Their personalities, however, would have Beren hiking back to Dorthonion.

"Well, it seems the Princesses deemed it appropriate to dine with the rabble tonight." Pippa muffles her snort behind her hand, but Tanya's green eyes find her all the same. As if connected by Wonder Twin powers, Bailey's gaze seeks her out as well. Pippa ducks her head in response, nervous fingers wrapping around the crystal wine glass. If she's going to deal with the O'Reilly women today, then she's going to need all the booze she can get.

"Careful, Ellis, they might cast a spell on you."

"Oh please, my little sister was a Witch and she'd throw those two across the room with ease." He leans comfortably in his seat, like a King sitting on a throne of his enemies' bones. "She's in Outpost Four in the Bahamas."

"Oh, I bet that's nice."

"Well, as nice as a bunker can be anyway." Pippa nods along with him, sipping on the wine. It's rich and expensive, something that might have been served at the parties her mother loved to throw. She still can't recall the woman's face, but she remembers lavish parties that filled their home to bursting, the way alcohol made her father violent.

"Will your fiancée be joining us tonight?"

"Not likely. She's feeling sick again." She frowns, setting her glass back to the table. "How are you feeling lately?"

"Aside from boredom, you mean?" He quirks up a brow and she shrugs in response, slouching in her seat. "I'm fine." The left brow joins the right near his hairline and she suppresses a smile. "I just wish we had more books to read. I wasn't able to bring much with me from California."

"There was an Outpost in LA. I wonder why you didn't get shipped there."

"Your guess is as good as mine. Those weird FBI types flew me here as soon as the ash settled on the ground." She pauses, remembering that afternoon with the muffled sunlight and the specks of white drifting from the sky. "I thought it was snow at first," she murmurs, closing her eyes. "I thought we'd be alright."

"We're still alive."

"Over half of the people that's supposed to be here never made it. They're either dead or severely mutated."

"Or both," Bailey points out. She's taken a seat at the head of the table with Tanya on her left, tapping one manicured nail against the glossy wood of the table. "The radiation from the Blast is worse than anything that's ever been recorded in history."

"I'm pretty sure that much is obvious." But Bailey really does know what she's talking about, she'd been a chemistry professor at Harvard. Now she's a bully, dressed in a silken gown with her hair done up on the top of her head with several small ribbons threaded into it. They're lilac, standing out against the dark brown.

"I'd argue with you, but you wouldn't understand since you didn't go to college."

"Excuse me for wanting to learn about other cultures before deciding on a career." Just two days before the Blast, Pippa had been thinking of getting a degree for teaching and then setting up shop in Asyut. She misses the dry heat of Egypt, the constant chatter of people in a language she was only half sure of. She misses everything.

The double doors that lead to the kitchen swing open to permit two servants carrying trays of food, setting them down on the table and moving back into the kitchen. Staff don't eat with the residents, it's a whole thing that Pippa still doesn't completely understand. She doesn't argue anymore though, just shrugs it off and digs into the roast beef and potatoes.

The food's good here, like, _really_ good. So good she doesn't come up for air again until she's had two platefuls and her stomach feels like it might burst. It'd be like that scene in Alien. Pippa has to fight back a giggle when she imagines Tanya's reaction to getting blood all over her pretty emerald gown.

Fortunately for Tanya, there's no Chestburster to come exploding outward or dance on the table to the tune of Hello My Baby.

"Well, as fun as these family dinners always are, I think I'll head upstairs," Pippa says, noting the way Bailey's still eating prim little bites from the tines of her fork. Ellis nods, mouth stuffed full with potatoes. They'd been overcooked, too soft for Pippa's liking. "I'll check on Sam on my way."

"Thanks," he says around the mouthful, chewing loudly and narrowing his eyes at Tanya's disgusted scoff. One of these days, Ellis is going to snap and stab her in the neck with his salad fork. Actually, that'd be pretty fun to watch. Pippa would pay to see that shit.

Pippa heads out of the dining room and back up the stairs until she's on the second floor landing, heading into one of the rooms on the left. It's one of the larger rooms, bigger than her own by a few feet and dominated by a massive four-poster with velvet curtains the color of rubies. Sam is lying across it with her legs hanging over the side, a warm washcloth over her eyes to help with the constant migraines she gets.

"You dead," Pippa asks, leaning against the doorjamb. Sam doesn't even twitch her fingers, just gives a drawn out groan of pain that she seems to regret a second later.

"Ugh," she finally manages. "My head hates me."

"Maybe it's because you always have your ponytails too tight." The washcloth comes off and Sam sits up in the bed, looking exhausted and wholly unamused. Her hair is in a pixie cut now, but she used to be obsessed with long hair, always snapping her head to the side too fast to make her hair slap the person behind her. Half the time, that person had been Pippa.

"We're running low on migraine pills. I really didn't think through this whole end of the world no-Dollar-Tree bullshit." She massages the spot between her brows, eyes squeezed shut. "Maybe I should hide out in the basement for a few hours. At least it's totally dark down there."

"There's a ghost down there." Pippa hates the basement, it gives her the creeps and makes her left wrist throb. There's a woman down there, plump and enraged and out for blood of any kind. Pippa tries to avoid her at all costs.

"The Butcher is nothing compared to my headache." She slides off the bed and stands on unsteady legs, giving a low moan as she tries to steady herself. "On the other hand, my bathtub is closer and there are no cleaver-throwing psychopaths in there."

"Good idea."

"Mm, I'm full of them." She shuffles past Pippa and down the hall to the bathroom, one of three in the entire house. The best one is Pippa's, another sticky note attached to the connecting door that read _No complaining about having to share the hot water -xx_. Whoever set up Outpost Two definitely knew what they were doing. Pippa shuts Sam and Ellis's door and is about to head across the hall to her own room when she hears a faint creaking overhead, like footsteps. _Mommy must be sick again_. She shakes the thought off with furrowed brows, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Be silent in that solitude, which is not loneliness," Pippa quotes," for then the spirits of the dead who stood in life before thee are again in death around thee—and their will shall overshadow thee: be still."

Another loud creak has her gasping and nearly falling over herself as she takes three rapid steps back. The creaking grows louder, like someone's up there stomping around. A Giant looking for its missing golden goose, perhaps. A Dark Lord seeking a precious piece of jewelry. Either way, Pippa's not curious enough to find out for herself.

"Oh, I am _so_ _not_ going to be the dumb chick in the first five minutes of a Supernatural episode."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to carve up canon for juicy bits and put Outpost 2 in North Carolina instead of West Virginia. Also, bowl cut guys aren't a thing in this because Mikey actually gets to use his Mighty Morphin Antichrist powers. Also also, the quote Pippa uses is from Spirits of the Dead by Edgar Allan Poe.


	3. The Campfire Song

**2018**

Taylor is barely ten years old the day she wakes up to find a teenager sleeping in her cousin's bed. He's tall and slight, hair the same gold as her own and curling around his ears, clothes far too small and ripping at the seams. They've got race cars on them, all the primary colors standing out brightly against white cotton, and Taylor knows who it is without having to think.

She closes the door softly behind her and retreats back to her room across the hall, finishing lacing up her shoes so she can go to school. Constance says that school is important, but appearance is even more important. She checks the vanity mirror to make sure her ponytail is straight and her uniform has no creases and she's just about to go present herself to her aunt when she hears the muted sound of someone thumping against her door.

"Constance?" She opens it slowly, giving her aunt a chance to straighten up rather than fall. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she says, breathless from shock. "I'm fine." Taylor looks past her and at the reopened door of Michael's room, able to see one bare foot poking up over the end of his bed.

"Did Mikey startle you?" Constance nods, then smooths wrinkles from her dress the way a knight might don his armor. She's hidden the shock away in a matter of seconds and Taylor has to admit that she's kind of impressed despite her distaste for the woman. Constance is strong, but she's also too soft for the dark thing inside Michael, she won't withstand the Blast when it comes. Then Taylor shakes her head because she doesn't quite know where that thought came from.

"You're not going to do that, are you?" Constance points to Michael's room and Taylor once again peeks around her to see toes wiggling.

"I don't think so." Taylor pushes her way into the hall, the small heels of her dress shoes click-clacking against the wood. "Can I have strawberries in my cereal this morning, Aunt Constance?"

"Yes…. Yes, of course." Constance leads the way downstairs, but Taylor hangs back as the covers of Michael's bed are tossed aside in the same haphazard manner as always. He sits up in the too-small bed, rubbing a hand over his face and blinking sleep from his eyes. He's different, not just on the outside, but on the inside too; that dark thing by his heart has grown and its tendrils seem to be reaching for her.

"Mikey, do you want breakfast?"

"Not hungry," he murmurs, getting up. She has to tilt her head back to look at him now and the shift is almost disorienting, but the thing in her mind says it's okay. He's supposed to be like this and she's supposed to help him. "Why are you so small, Tay?"

"I'm not small, you're big." Taylor grabs his hand and drags him into her bedroom, tugging until he's bent at the waist and looking in the mirror. Blue eyes go wide and his fingers come up to brush against his cheek, drifting from a high cheekbone to his lips. "Is it that thing, Mikey? That black thing that talks to you at night?"

"Yes." Something changes in him, eyes going hard as he turns to look down at her. "You need to change, too." Understanding blooms in Taylor's mind, as easy as learning Spanish or riding a bike. She nods, just a short bow of her head, and she lets him cup her face in his hands. Michael bends low and his lips part, his breath hot against her face and smelling of old flowers as it washes over her. That thing in her mind unfurls like one of Constance's roses, reaching out to touch Michael's darkness and intertwining with it.

When Taylor opens her eyes again, she's fifteen years old.

**2021**

"And that's how I got banned for twenty years from Burger King," Ellis finishes, looking put out. "You start one small fire and suddenly you're a menace to society."

"Daniel Handler wrote, like, thirteen books about why setting fires is bad," Pippa tells him, not looking away from the chessboard in front of her. "You should probably check them out if it's ever safe to go outside again." Her fingers linger over one of the pawns and Ellis makes a noise, so she snatches her hand away and goes back to studying. "Remind me why I thought playing chess was a good idea?"

"Because chess is better than gossiping with Bailey or watching Tanya root through everyone's closets."

"What's Sam doing?"

"Stealing your bathroom while I cleverly distract you."

"She could have asked. I'm not gonna tell her no." He shrugs and leans forward, elbows on his thighs.

"You have no idea what you're doing."

"Nope."

"Wanna play checkers?"

"Oh yeah." Ellis was just about to gather the pieces when a burst of static causes them both to jump about a mile in the air. Immediately after the static comes music, tinny at first and gaining strength. "What the hell is that?"

"No friggin' idea." The chessboard is abandoned as they follow the sound, the other three companions joining along the way until they're all standing in the disused parlor. They each have their own spaces and their personalities tend to clash, so the parlor had been abandoned after the first week of moving in. Now Pippa's wondering if that weird radio has worked this entire time.

"— _s-o-n-g song, it'll help if you just sing along!_ "

And it's playing SpongeBob. What even is her life right now?

Sam is the first one to move away from the semi-circle they've formed, running her slim fingers over the old fashioned, jukebox-inspired radio. The plain white lines running along the front are now a riot of color, purple light shifting to pale blue and then shifting to sea foam green.

"Do you think we can use that to find out if anyone else is still alive," Tanya asks.

"It doesn't work that way," Bailey answers, squinting at the radio. Her glasses are perched on the tip of her nose, crooked like always and held together by some tape. They broke on her fourth day in North Carolina, she'd made a snooty remark about Sam's teeth and Sam had punched her right in the face. Needless to say, no more snobby remarks were made. "How's it getting reception all the way down here?"

"Can we change the song?" Sam fiddles with the dials, but the song continues playing. "I'll take that as a no." Pippa kneels in front of it, head titled to the side as she watches the lights change color. "I'm going back to my room. Maybe having my door closed will muffle SpongeBob." Tanya turns sharply and strides out of the parlor, Bailey following close behind.

The other two leave after about an hour of listening to the Campfire Song, but Pippa stays behind. It's nostalgic to hear this, making her inner child squeal with delight because this and I'm a Little Teapot had been her favorite songs to belt out when she was four. The song changes after about another hour, Pippa barely noticing as her eyelids begin to droop and she leans heavily against one of the footrests.

" _No more talk of darkness, forget your wide-eyed fears. I'm here, nothing can harm you, my words will warm and calm you_ …."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs used are The Campfire Song Song from SpongeBob and All I Ask of You from Phantom of the Opera


	4. Visitor

**2020**

The boys' school for Warlocks is a depressing place, basically a survivalist's wet dream with crown molding. It's dark with only candles and fireplaces to light the rooms, the floors creak ominously, and there's a door that leads down into the basement that's always locked. It's like Ariel watched the dream sequences in Nightmare on Elm Street and had an _ah-ha_ moment, the little bulb over his head flickering weakly with the idea.

Taylor prefers her foster mom's house, but Michael should feel right at home here surrounded by half-cocked morons and an entire freezer filled with Häagen-Dazs.

She leaves her new room with the intent to explore further, maybe find out if they've got My Chemical Romance hidden in a closet to perform whenever Michael wants them to. The boy has an obsession with Gerard Way bigger than his own ego. Taylor's halfway along one of the endless number of hallways when the one and only Supreme steps in her way.

"Move," Taylor says. The Witch plants her feet firmly against the hardwood floor, like it wouldn't be easy for Taylor to kick at those high heels and then walk over her. "Move, _please_."

"Who are you?"

"Pippi friggin' Longstocking. Get out of my way." She goes to shove past her, but Cordelia is fast for a woman pushing forty and she latches onto Taylor's arm, holding her in place. "Let go or lose the hand, lady."

"You're gifted, aren't you?" There's an intense fascination in the blonde's eyes, one that Taylor usually only sees when Michael is in hyper focus. He took their toaster apart one day to see how it worked, Constance was furious, but it didn't match her rage when she found out Michael had used her credit card to purchase three different models so he could compare them. "You're a Witch."

"Oh yeah, sure. College student by day and green-skinned harpy by night. In my free time I like to steal shoes and set fire to scarecrows." Cordelia's lips purse and Taylor's suddenly reminded of a psychic she'd met as a little girl, the one that called her evil and stormed out of Constance's house. "I'm no Witch. I'm psychic."

"And I take vitamins because I like the taste." Taylor rolls her eyes at the sarcasm, trying to move again only to have the Witch fucking glue her feet to the floor using some magic or the other.

"Lady, I'm more human than half the people in this house. If I was a Witch, then I wouldn't be a fucking orphan right now." And that still hurts to say, the word like poison on her tongue as she remembers the way her daddy was murdered. She sucks in a deep breath and focuses on not crying for a few moments and then continues speaking. "I'm no Witch."

"But you're something." Cordelia's eyes widen and she reaches out a hand, fingers curling into her palm to keep from touching the other woman's cheek. "You're a Grim."

"I'm not a dog."

"Don't be ridiculous, the black dog is only one form. A Grim is someone that can sense death, basically a walking portent of bad things to come. Most of them are still in Europe, but there are a few that have migrated to the States over time. How curious."

"The only curious thing I see is a Supreme using her magic on someone that can't defend herself yet," Michael states, a careful fury burning in his gaze as he stalks over to them. He puts a protective hand on Taylor's shoulder and she can feel the foreign magic seeping into his fingertips, a pressure easing until she can shuffle her feet again.

"Come on, Mikey," Taylor says, pulling on Michael's hand. "Let's go enjoy my birthday before you have to perform the Seven Wonders."

**2022**

Pippa remembers her life in flashes, like polaroid pictures sliding out one by one with the images a blur of motion. Her father is an imposing man, powerful, and he lived in North Carolina his entire life. Her mother had been a demure little southern belle that wore a pearl necklace and controlled the household with an iron fist. She might have had a younger brother, but his face is blurry and all she can remember is a voice saying _you'll be safe, i'm going to make sure of it_.

And maybe he did. She's in Outpost Two, still hale and hearty and sporting a fresh coat of bright pink polish on her fingernails. Her family is dead, but maybe she can make a new one in time. She isn't going to hold her breath, though.

She glances over at where Ellis is staring at the chessboard with something like a scowl, Bailey smugly plucking his queen off its square. Ellis doesn't look up, one hand scratching at the scruff on his jaw. Bailey writes the new win down on the notebook set next to the board, bringing the tally to five wins for Bailey and four for Ellis. Pippa and Tanya have a bet going that it'll take ten defeats to make Ellis's head explode.

"Can we call it a draw for now," Sam asks, a book dangling from her fingers. _A Feast for Crows_ , Pippa reads. It's not a bad book, but it's a bit long for her. She likes shorter things; her attention span doesn't let her read much else. "I've aged ten years just watching her kick your ass, hon."

"No, I'm the best player here."

"Not according to this notebook," Bailey remarks and Pippa actually has to cough to cover up her laugh. "Ready to give up, Falls?"

"I'll give up when I'm dead, O'Reilly." He means it literally and he'd probably continue playing this endless round of games when he's a ghost. He's stubborn if nothing else, she has to give him that. "Reset your pieces and give me back my damn queen." Bailey flicks some of her hair over her shoulder and holds out the stolen piece.

"Can someone get me some more wine? This is going to be a long night." She holds her glass up until one of the servants come to fill it, a light pink this time that tastes like strawberries. It makes something prickle at the back of Pippa's mind, like she should recognize it. It's silly, but she can't quite shake the feeling that she's tried it before returning to North Carolina.

A few feet away, the music changes from Get'cha Head in the Game to a Billie Eilish song. Pippa has a vague memory of dancing along to the song in her pajamas and socks, laughing along with her brother as they try to avoid sliding into an end table with a vase of flowers balanced in the direct center.

" _Bite my tongue, bide my time,"_ Billie drawls, smooth and wonderful to her ears," _wearing a warning sign._ _Wait till the world is mine_ …."

"You motherfucker!"

"No need for such language, Ellison," Bailey scolds as she sets one of his pieces next to her glass. It's all entirely ridiculous and Pippa has to fight back a fit of giggles. "Three more glasses will have me tipsy. Maybe then you'll have a chance."

"Or maybe I'll smother you in your sleep."

"That's not very sporting." He takes one of her pieces and things start to slow even further as they each study the board with an intensity that should be saved for open heart surgery. Pippa reclines in her seat, knees hooked over the arm of it and her gaze focused on the ceiling now. It's rounded and white, a few curved beams of dark wood supporting the upper floors.

Pippa likes her bedroom the most, the only room that feels like it belongs to her rather than a cold place meant for survival. It's warm in there, a short bookcase next to the door that's filled with books of poetry; her walls are a cheery yellow and there was a ratty old teddy bear waiting on her desk when she arrived.

The whole house is fancy, the type of thing white suburban moms would kill for. The floors are all polished to a shine, the archways open into spacious rooms, the window frame on the second floor is shaped like half-closed wings. The architecture makes it easy to imagine what this place might have been, once upon a time ago.

She can picture a woman in a nice dress strutting through the halls, her husband in a handsome suit as he twirls her around to a Glenn Miller record. Maybe they danced to Moonlight Serenade, a slow number that let the wife rest her head against her husband's chest. Pippa can almost hear it, the faint crackle as the needle traces the grooves.

Pippa's dropped back into reality by shattering glass, jerking upright in the chair and nearly falling right out of it in her rush. Ellis has dived over the table and tackled Bailey to the ground, the wine soaking into the plush rug as his hands wrap around her throat and squeeze.

"Ellis, what the hell," she demands. Sam is already out of her chair, her and Tanya working together to yank Ellis away. Pippa jumps up and grabs the back of Bailey's dress, dragging her backwards as the other two pry Ellis's fingers loose.

"Get her out of here," Sam shouts, her and Tanya struggling to hold Ellis back. "Get her out!" Pippa doesn't hesitate, she just drags Bailey out of the parlor and towards the stairs. She only pauses when they actually reach the stairs, helping Bailey up and then ushering her up to Pippa's bedroom.

"What the hell was that about?"

"I called him stupid," Bailey rasps, collapsing in the vanity chair with a hand at her throat. Red marks are already visible against the pale skin, finger-shaped and darkening rapidly. "He just fucking snapped and the next thing I know, he's flying over the table and I'm on the ground."

"Jesus Christ." They can still hear Ellis shouting downstairs, screaming slurs at Tanya and breaking things. He's always hated Tanya, purposefully using the wrong pronouns whenever she gets particularly annoying or snobby. It's one of the traits Pippa hates the most, but Tanya is fully capable of knocking Ellis off his pedestal when he gets like that. Suddenly an alarm starts to blare, drowning out Ellis's screaming as a red light begins to flash in warning. It makes Bailey yelp and nearly fall to the ground when she jumps, Pippa taking several steps away from her door.

"What's that?"

"Someone's trespassing."

"What? No one's been here since all of this started!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything." The alarm doesn't fade and the lights continue to flash, anxiety building up between the two women so much that it's nearly a physical thing. "What do we do?"

"Let's find out who the hell's still alive." Bailey is the one to open the door and stride down the stairs like some kind of warrior, reminding Pippa of Éowyn as she charged into battle despite the Fell-beasts screeching overhead. The other three have gathered near the front door, the one that leads into the decontamination chamber where they can hear the hissing of air and water.

"Are you guys expecting anyone," Tanya asks Ellis and Sam.

"No," they answer, almost in unison. The rage has faded from Ellison's eyes, replaced by a cold sort of curiosity. There's a pistol in his hand. The sounds on the other side of the door stop abruptly, the alarm and flashing lights cutting off instantaneously as the front door swings open.

It's a man that steps inside, dressed impeccably in black from head to toe apart from a pale blue scarf wrapped around his neck and tucked into his coat. He's handsome in a devilish way, long blond hair pulled back with a black velvet ribbon tied in a prim bow. He holds up an ID badge, similar to the one Ellis and Sam had presented when Pippa first arrived.

"Miss Crowe," he greets, gaze settling on Sam. "I trust things have gone smoothly so far." Sam nods, looking up at him in pure adoration. It's like he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, a sculpture carved from marble with no flaws to be found. Perfect. His gaze finds Pippa's next, the same color as his scarf. "Hello, Taylor."

And the memories come flooding back.

**2021**

It starts out subtle, this connection to death. Taylor saw her first ghost when she was three years old, a little girl flickering into existence in Taylor's bedroom and asking her to play tea party. Taylor had thought it was completely normal until she was a little older and her mother explained that it was a special gift that she should keep to herself so that other people didn't ostracize her.

Seeing and communication became the norm for years, but then she was forced to watch several murders in the space of three days. As if the trauma wasn't bad enough, Taylor realized she felt a little tug in her chest whenever someone she knew had died; a pull and snap like string breaking under too much pressure, pain blooming in her chest as though someone had poked her with something sharp.

It wasn't until she moved in with Michael and Constance that she began to understand how deep her little gift really went, experimenting inside a house filled with dead things. She can still remember the first day Michael took her over there, how excited he'd been when she could see his family even when they went completely invisible.

When she was fifteen, she began to realize that fresh deaths have a certain smell. It's like marshmallows that have been left in the fire too long, burnt sugar that makes her feel sick to her stomach. She pushed the nausea to the side and took control of the situation, though, hiding Michael's third murder and getting a little satisfaction when she buried Constance in the backyard near the body of the maid she'd killed years before.

After that, she and her cousin began researching, checking out books in the library and sucking up the WiFi that Miriam Mead is always complaining about. There's no real name for what Taylor is, no description that entirely suits her abilities, but Michael decides it's Fate. And it makes sense, she supposes, the child conceived by the living and dead should have someone to balance him out, someone that can sense death like normal people can sense when a cramp is about to hit them.

When the Blast happens, when the world goes to hell in a handbasket, Taylor is safely locked away under the earth but she can still feel the pull-snap-pain of family members being blown to pieces like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. She doesn't cry, she just draws into herself until she's safely nestled in her head and the persona she and Michael came up with is front and center.

Philippa Claire Mott is just a young woman of twenty-three years, previously the heir of a land baron in North Carolina and graduate of Stevenson School in Pebble Beach. Philippa never got the chance to attend college, she spent the five years after private school in Egypt observing the different culture and enjoying being away from her drunk of a father. Philippa, Pippa to her friends, never knew what hell the foster system is capable of being or the absolute terror of wondering if a ghost was going to butcher her while she slept.

Philippa is safe. Philippa is strong. Philippa is alive.

Taylor is erased for eighteen months until the blond-haired visitor arrives at Outpost Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics are from you should see me in a crown by Billie Eilish.


	5. A Violent Process

**2018**

It's the wet gurgling and the scent of burnt sugar that wakes Taylor up, her eyes blinking open as she slides out of her cocoon of blankets. She doesn't feel the slight burn as she drags bare feet over her carpet or the cold wood of the hallway's floor, drawn down the hall to Constance's room.

Her aunt lies still in the bed and Taylor wonders for a moment why she'd decided to change her sheets in the middle of the night. Constance loves the white Egyptian cotton. She breathes in deep one more time, able to pick out the coppery scent of blood and realizing what must have happened in the same instant that her gray eyes find her cousin.

Michael stands panting near the bed, blood dotting his face like freckles while it paints his arms up to his elbows. He looks over at her, lips parted, pupils dilated. He enjoyed this, the act of slaughtering their guardian like a pig with her own scissors.

Taylor thinks red is a good color for him.

Her gaze flicks back to Constance, the cloudy eyes and a colorless cheek pressed into vibrant red. Not quite dead yet, but close. Perhaps they can drag her next door, let her decompose in a grave next to that maid she hates so much. If they move fast enough then Constance and Moira will be stuck with each other for eternity and it makes Taylor want to grin.

Instead of voicing all that, though, she lets out a heavy sigh and rakes her fingers through her hair. "Jesus Christ, you emo mess."

"Oh, like you didn't want to do it," he mutters, wiping his hands on his black sleep top like it'd actually make a difference.

"Yeah, but I figured we could just poison her vodka."

**2022**

Taylor very nearly collapses against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as her memories crash into her. It's a violent process, knocking the wind right out of her as she hits her knees on the hardwood floor. Flashes of scenes run through her mind in rapid succession, all out of order—the hissing of a snake, warm blood splattered across her face, and a calm voice telling her she's going to be okay, a wonderful breakfast with waffles and a pale blue scarf she feels so smug about.

When her eyes flicker open again and she looks to the visitor, she has her lips quirked up in a smirk that widens into a full-on grin when he rolls his eyes and tugs impatiently at the scarf. He knows it's a good color for him, that her argument is still solid even eighteen months later.

"Don't even start," he grumbles, taking the scarf off and stuffing it in his coat pocket. "I look better in red."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," she says, getting up with some help from Ellis. Bailey and Tanya are looking between the cousins suspiciously, but Taylor ignores them with ease. "What took you so long to get here?"

"Well, I did have other Outposts to destroy before I could get to this one." Michael smiles and reaches out a gloved hand to cup her cheek, the leather soft and expensive. She's missed the casual touches, the understanding that they've always had. Constance used to call them puppies, the way they always piled together whenever possible.

"Miss Mead?"

"Safe in LA." Taylor nods, running her fingers through her hair to make it a little more manageable. She had it cut to her shoulders just last week, Pippa had loved it but Taylor is a little pissed that she can't do anything with it so short. She'll think of something of course, but she's going to remain pissy in the meantime. "How do you feel?"

"Like I just had an entire lifetime of memories smack me in the face, Mikey." She lets out a sharp breath and rolls her shoulders. "How about you?" He shrugs and lets his gaze wander, taking in the architecture Taylor had painstakingly recreated on several blueprints until everything was _perfect_. The only thing missing is her family; Daddy and Mattie and Shel and Edward. They've been suspiciously absent these past few months.

"I've had worse."

"I like the long hair." He reaches up to touch the ribbon, one of hers from when she was younger and obsessed with Violet Baudelaire.

"Who the fuck are you," Tanya demands and Taylor's first instinct is to pin her to the wall by her throat, but she stamps down on it and meets her gaze evenly. There's no cowering like Pippa used to do, Taylor keeps her posture perfect and her gray eyes focused.

"His name is Michael Langdon, creator of The Cooperative and the only reason you're still alive to wear my sapphires." Tanya covers the necklace with her hand, diamonds set into a silver frame with sapphires dangling in places to look like drops of water. The color's all wrong for Tanya's skin tone, but it matches her shoes.

"And how do you know him?"

"He's my cousin."

"Bullshit," Bailey snaps, taking a step forward. "You don't have any power or you'd be in the Bahamas."

"Oh honey, I have all the power." Taylor strides over to her with a predatory grace that makes Bailey shrink into herself just the slightest bit. It makes the dark thing in Taylor's chest preen. "In fact, if I wanted to throw you to the monsters outside, the only one to protest would be your sister."

"You wouldn't. You're not that cruel."

"Jesus, you really do have them fooled," Michael drawls, leaning against a wall and examining his nails. "I've seen her kill someone for their shoes before." Taylor grins proudly, holding out one foot to show the very same shoes. They're gorgeous, a deep red color with a five-inch heel and gold-painted swirls over the toes. "Yes, Tay, I'm so glad they make you feel tall."

"Fuck being tall, they make my legs look great," she says with a snort. "Are you hungry? You look a little too gaunt. Have you been eating? Who am I kidding? Of course you haven't. Get your ass in the kitchen so I can make you something." She ushers him in the right direction, not giving him a chance to protest and shutting the door so the others don't think they're invited.

"Good to see you haven't changed much."

"Change sucks." Michael hums an agreement, seating himself at the little table that hasn't been used in eighteen long months, watching as Taylor flits around to gather what she needs. It's a night for comfort rather than celebration, a night for a familiar routine that's played out nearly every Saturday since Taylor was four.

She goes through the motions, half of her mind replaying an old memory of her mother swaying in front of the stove, humming along to the soundtrack of her favorite movie. Daddy joined in once he came into the kitchen and Taylor had thought _yucky_ when they kissed, but she'd also thought it would be nice to have a husband to do that with her one day. They would dance together in a living room flooded with sunlight, the same song that her Mama would sing sometimes. _Say you love me every waking moment, turn my head with talk of summertime. Say you need me with you now and always. Promise me that all you say is true, that's all I ask of you_ ….

"Mac and cheese," Michael asks when she sets the bowl down in front of him. He's arching a brow but doesn't hesitate to dig in, missing the way that Taylor only picks at hers.

"It's Saturday." He slows down at the reminder, blue eyes finding her past the fringe of golden lashes. He's wearing makeup, dark brown eyeliner on his bottom lid with a line of shimmering glitter on the top. It reminds her of David Bowie and the song she used to love as a kid— _my baby's fun had gone and left my baby blue_.

"You should eat. You're making me feel self-conscious." She scoffs and shovels a spoonful of food in her mouth. Michael rolls his eyes with his entire body; it'd be impressive if she didn't know he does that in reaction to everything from Miss Mead making him eat vegetables to Taylor complaining when she breaks a nail after digging a grave.

"Tomorrow I'll make omelets with tomatoes and mushrooms, and we'll have fresh orange juice—"

"You do realize you have servants for that, right?" Taylor purses her lips and raises her brows, Michael huffing out a sigh and shaking his head. It's a brand-new argument but it feels old, like all those times she smacked his hand with a spatula when he tried to steal chicken out of the skillet as she prepared it for fajitas. "At least let them help you. You chose every single one of them personally and only left one good cook for Outpost Three." Michael's nose wrinkles and a crease forms between his brows.

"Is something wrong there? With Miss Mead?"

"No, Miss Mead's fine."

"But…?"

"But the woman in charge of the Outpost is making up her own rules. She shot the cook and a maid because they were having sex."

"Well, I'd be safe there but you sure as shit wouldn't be." Taylor smirks, reveling in the fact that being asexual could keep her safe in that Outpost should she end up there. Of course, if the chick in charge even thinks about laying a hand on Michael, Taylor would rip her head from her shoulders and use it as a mantlepiece.

"I'm heading there after we're done here. It'll be nice to see Miss Mead again." Taylor is the one to hum this time around, taking another small bite when Michael raises his brows expectantly.

They don't talk for a long while, not until the sky outside is dark and they're safe in Taylor's bedroom. It's yellow, just like in that house where her life began to crumble at the edges, the same bookcase with the same stuffed animals and no ghosts to torment her. She misses the ghosts sometimes, misses the quiet hours she spent in the attic or in the basement and just read poetry. Poetry comes easy to her, short and interesting enough to keep her attention from drifting to other things.

Michael paces the room, running long fingers over the curved ear of her teddy bear before moving over to the closet. Inside is packed with gowns of varying colors, none of them strictly purple. It's not a good color for her skin tone, she's better suited with scarlets and jewel tones. _Fair_ , Constance had said, _you could pass as fully white now_. She'd burned with anger at the statement back then, a rage that boiled in her veins and came out in a vicious swing that knocked a vase to the ground and sent water and roses scattering over the kitchen floor.

There's still part of her that hates Constance for trying to shame her for her Cuban ancestry. If it were possible, she'd dig the old crone up and take her time with the murder, peel back the layers of skin until Constance is a sobbing, snotty mess of a human being. Taylor would like that. Maybe one day she'll see if it's possible.

"Where are you right now," Michael asks, pulling her away from thoughts of violence. "In the past?"

"No." He nods, not prying like he usually would. Maybe he's afraid that she's fragile, a teacup with little cracks spidering through it. She almost laughs at that, wants to fall onto her bed and giggle and sing that stupid baby song she'd loved so much as a little girl. Taylor bites her tongue until the feeling passes, no longer a little teacup even if she _is_ short and stout. "Don't look at me like I'm going to break."

Michael blinks in surprise at her harsh tone, lips parting just the slightest bit as he leans away from her. She feels powerful in that instance, a raw sensation that makes her almost purr in satisfaction at seeing fear in her cousin's eyes. Pretty blue things, dark with something otherworldly and hesitation.

His lips press together tightly and twist to the right, an altogether unpleasant expression. He hates it when people are rude to him, but what the hell else is Taylor around for other than keeping his ego from getting too big? He might be the big bad Antichrist, but he's also two years younger than her and giggles when she pokes his left side just under his ribs.

Neither one of them wants to break the little staring match, but Taylor is exhausted, and her mind feels fuzzy after having all her locked-up memories coming back with the rattle of chains and a pig squealing. She just wants to curl up in her bed with her teddy bear for a few hours, blessed sleep and silence.

"The attic is prepared for guests," she says finally, turning her gaze to the window near her bed. "The left section of it is for you."

"Who does the right section belong to?" She doesn't answer at first, lost in a memory filled with cold moonlight and a ghost that stopped her from butchering her mom's favorite poem. It's almost funny now that she's thinking of it, almost enough to make laughter bubble up from her belly.

"It belongs to Edward."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs mentioned in this chapter are All I Ask of You from Phantom of the Opera and Magic Dance by David Bowie.


	6. Careful Precision

**2016**

Taylor remembers a time when she didn't hate people just five minutes after meeting them, remembers that she'd been shy but open and ready to smile at a moment's notice. She'd been happy back then, didn't know that foster homes really did have evil step-mothers like in Cinderella, or older kids that liked to shove the little ones, or that people didn't actually like each other half the time.

She'd been sheltered by her family, but she knows now. She knows and the hate gripping her heart is almost worse than when those strings _snapped_.

She's been in the foster system for nearly six months, it's not long in the grand scheme of things, she knows this, but she can count the days in the bruises mottling her arms. Taylor is late sometimes in coming home from school, she gets distracted by pretty rocks that Shel would have loved or finds a quiet bench to sit on and watch people as they walk past. Her foster mother doesn't like that, she worries, she yells and she grabs and Taylor wants to _hurt her_.

One day she does.

Taylor comes into the kitchen where her social worker is chatting with Ellen, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. Ellen, the foster mother with grabby hands, is petite and picture-perfect like some housewife from the fifties; perfectly coiffed blonde hair with pearl earrings and a pearly smile to match. She knows how to charm people with timed compliments and carefully thought of conversation subjects, keeping everything in a neat row.

Tyler is the social worker and she is tall and fierce, dark braids wrapped up in a bun on top of her head. She wears silver eyeliner and heels like a warrior wears their sword, weapons in their own right. Tyler Kohl is like all the Princesses that Taylor had dreamed of when she was younger, perfectly capable and beautiful and _strong_.

Tyler glances away from the steam curling up from her cup when Taylor steps into the kitchen, her lips quirked up in a welcoming smile and the color of fresh raspberries today. Ellen's mask of pleasantness never falters until Taylor meets her gaze head on and pushes up her sleeves to reveal the mottling blues and yellows—concealer is washed off to reveal a bruised cheek.

There's a vicious glee that makes Taylor bare her teeth in an animalistic grin as Ellen is handcuffed and put in the backseat of a cruiser. The other foster kids are being herded into various cars to be spread throughout LA in different homes, Taylor will be included in that once Tyler gets off her cell phone.

Taylor's sitting on the front steps of the house when Tyler comes to stand in front of her on the sidewalk, tall with that sweet as honey smile that makes Taylor want to melt. The lilac blazer she wears stands out sharply against the brown of her skin and Taylor loves the color, thinks it suits Tyler's personality completely. Purple is for royalty.

"I've found a relative that's willing to take you in," she says, soft like she's talking to a kicked puppy. Taylor meets her gaze, that dark thing inside of her twisting violently in her chest like a ball of snakes. Eve, hidden away in her backpack, reacts similarly. "She lives here in LA and she has a little boy that's around your age."

"My daddy's family is in Louisiana."

"This one is your mom's side." Taylor actually has to stop and think for a minute, trying to sort through the different faces for any that weren't Cuban or dead. She ends up drawing a blank until a car pulls up to the curb. It's nothing overly fancy but it's not about to fall apart anytime soon, sturdy and made for families.

The woman that steps out of the car looks to be in her mid-fifties despite good grooming, her hair just as blonde and perfect as Ellen's and she wears a pretty flower-printed sundress that accentuates her thin frame. She's pretty, vaguely familiar from an old photograph taken at some point in the early nineties or so. Shelby and Mama had been teenagers, beaming at the camera with a set of twins on one side and a younger version of this woman on their left.

"Hello," the woman says, approaching at a slow and comfortable pace. "Are you the social worker in charge of my niece's case?" Tyler nods and holds out a hand, fingers slowly curling in against her palm and her arm dropping when the other woman just stares at her.

"Uh, yes," Tyler says. "Yes, I'm Tyler Kohl and this is—"

"I'm well-aware of who this little one is. What I'm confused about is why it's taken this long for you to realize she should be with family. For God's sakes, look at her arms. Some of those are old and you never once realized she was being abused?" The woman bulldozes right over Tyler, continuing in a tirade worthy of being called a tantrum.

When it's over and done with, Taylor is loaded into the car and carted away like designer luggage. She's buckled in securely with her backpack settled on her lap until they reach their destination. The house they stop at is nice, the lawn perfectly manicured and boasting a flowerbed on either side of the white porch steps.

"Just wait right here for a second," the woman, Constance, says, patting Taylor's shoulder before disappearing into the house. Taylor takes the moment of solitude to shoulder her backpack and study the pair of ghosts ogling her from the downstairs window of the house next door.

Constance comes out a moment later, a little boy following after her with one of his hands trapped in her grasp. Taylor thinks for a moment of Ellen, the panicky way she had grabbed Taylor and shook her for having the audacity to be late after school, the stinging slap across her face. Then she's focusing on the boy, _really focusing_ , and she sees something dark in him that mimics the thing inside her. One of the strings tied to her heart leads to him, strong and seemingly unbreakable and the same bright red as a dying sun.

The boy smiles and it's bright and hopeful and a predatory showing of teeth. Taylor doesn't feel threatened by it, she could return it if the energy hadn't been drained by a car ride spent listening to Johnny Cash songs.

"Hello," he greets. "I'm Michael."

"Michael," Constance introduces," this is Taylor. She'll be staying with us from now on." Taylor holds his gaze and searches those blue eyes for something familiar, finding them way deep down where the dark things hide. It feels like coming home, the darkness inside of her calming for the first time since she set foot in North Carolina, lying still and quiet.

A voice sounding suspiciously like hers hisses _here there be monsters_.

**2022**

When Taylor wakes up the next morning, Eve is curled around her ankle and her world seems a little more stable than it had been. She can hear a Fall Out Boy song blasting through the speakers downstairs and bites back a laugh. Her cousin is still an emo dork, some things will never change.

With a content sigh, Taylor pushes the blankets off her and stands up, bare toes wiggling against her threadbare rug. It's not plush like most of the things that decorate the house, but it's hers. It's part of home. Eve seems reluctant to let Taylor go, but it's shaken loose as she steps into the bathroom and the little adder coils up under a pile of fluffy green towels. Taylor's nightgown is slightly too large on her, falling easily off her shoulders and landing in a pool of pink satin around her feet. She kicks it aside before striding forward, getting her bathwater running and pouring in a liberal amount of jasmine oil.

This is one of the few differences in this Outpost and the house she based it on, a connecting bath with its gilded mirror and clawfoot tub. She remembers the scrapbook her mom had put together when she was Taylor's age, a mish mash of clashing style choices that culminated into her dream house. This place is no one's dream, but she can still honor Monica somehow. She can give her this much.

Her bath is quick this morning, just long enough to wash her hair and body before she gets out and dries off. She strolls into her bedroom and straight to the wardrobe, picking slowly through her gowns until she finds the one she's looking for. The gown is a deep blue and made of velvet, the short sleeves hanging off her shoulders and made of stiff lace that tapers to a point and matches the silver designs just under her bust; more silvery lace decorates the gown from her knees to just above her ankles where small ruffles take over.

She doesn't even bother messing with her hair beyond brushing it out, the ends curling as it dries naturally. There's a drop of water on her shoulder, sliding down over a sharp collarbone and dabbed away by a silk handkerchief before it can touch her dress.

There's a creak outside and then her door is opening, Michael shuffling inside just enough to fall forward onto her bed. He's dressed for the day and watching her through bleary eyes as she applies her makeup just so. Aunt Shelby used to say that the more natural it looks the better, a steady hand and a little concealer making the world go 'round. Constance hated makeup, practically hissed whenever Taylor even glanced at some eyeshadow, and she nearly had a stroke when she found a tube of stolen mascara hidden under Taylor's pillow. Naturally, Taylor found a better hiding place and made Vivien help her put it on in the mornings.

When she's done, Michael flips onto his back and holds up a stick of red eyeliner and two scarves. It's an old routine, his hands are shaky first thing in the mornings and so she takes it upon herself to make sure his makeup is just as perfect as her own. She works silently, pulling him up by the front of a black button-down so her lines are even. The top line ends in a sharp point and the bottom line seems almost dull in comparison, creating a fishtail look.

"Which scarf," he asks, holding them up again.

"The one that matches your eyeliner," she says, snatching the silver one out of his hand and tossing it over her shoulder. "Duh." He ties the scarf around his neck with a careful precision, the shakiness of his fingers barely noticeable. He must have had his coffee already, a smidge of French vanilla creamer and some milk until the coffee doesn't even taste how it's meant to. Taylor takes hers black, just like Mattie used to.

"How have things been here? Were you treated right?"

"For the most part, yeah. It's been boring as hell and I've learned that chess makes my brain hurt, but no one's died." She shrugs, knowing she can't really complain. She wants to, though. She wants to yell at him for leaving her here for eighteen months when she could have been making people miserable. "Tell me about the other Outposts."

"It was surprisingly easy to take them out. The people in charge were mostly idiots and bought the lie that I wanted to take people to a paradise away from all the filth of this world." He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Dad was right, people are too gullible."

"Oh, I'm sure Tate would love to hear you say that. He'd brag until Patrick threw him out another window."

"Patrick's been too busy lately. I convinced him to put on that disgusting rubber suit from the House and he's been going through men left and right. People get really loose-lipped after a good fucking." Taylor scrunches up her nose.

"Makes me glad I'll never have to deal with that."

"Anyway, the international Outposts are in ruins and I made Jennifer Lawrence pee herself."

"What about the Satanists?"

"Tyler's fine. She's in the California safe haven." Taylor nods and relaxes, glad that her social worker will be okay. They'd stressed for months trying to figure out how to keep their patchwork family safe after the Blast and it had never occurred to them until it was almost too late that the answer was right under their noses. The Murder House sits over a literal portal to Hell, the whole property is protected.

Violet and Ben had a bet going on how long it would take the cousins to figure out the obvious. In the end, Ben had to fork over fifty bucks.

"I think you should leave this Outpost intact." She reaches out for the teddy bear, running a finger over the curve of one ear. She'd loved this bear when she was little, but she'd left it behind in the mad dash out of here both times. "Leave it to the ghosts."

"No problem. I'll cast a protection spell on it that those idiot Warlocks taught me." They sit in silence for a long moment, interrupted by Michael's growling stomach. "I've been craving ice cream this whole apocalypse. How do you feel about hot fudge sundaes for breakfast?"

"That's the best idea I've heard all year." He leaves the room at a dead sprint and she follows after him, giggling like a little girl as they both slide into the opulent kitchen. She grabs all the necessary ingredients and piles them on the counter, pausing with her hand over the spray can of Reddi-wip as a memory unfolds behind her eyelids.

_It's a rare day in southern Cali, frost covering all the flowers and a cold snap to the air that makes Taylor shiver at the thought of going outside. Her daddy is away at work, but her mommy's in the kitchen and humming along to one of her records. Taylor loves the sound, the faint traces of static between notes, needle against vinyl._

" _Come here, Tay," Monica calls. She isn't sick yet and her cheeks hold a healthy glow to them, her smile absent of all the exhaustion. The cancer diagnoses will come in just a couple of months, after the holidays have passed them by in a blur of Bing Crosby songs and sepia-toned memories._ _Taylor is three and blissfully unaware of the hell awaiting her. She runs into the kitchen in her socked feet and slides up against her mommy's legs, grinning up at her._

_"Is it gonna snow," she asks in broken Spanish._

" _There's a good chance of it. You know what might make that a certainty?" Taylor shakes her head, giggling when Monica lifts her up and supports her against a hip._

" _Ice cream!"_

" _That's right, my love. Ice cream and lots of whipped cream." Monica grabs the spray can with her free hand, putting a dab of Reddi-wip on Taylor's nose. They eat their ice cream in front of the fireplace, getting chocolate syrup all over their faces, hands sticky from all the cherries._ _Nico arrives an hour later to join them, spinning Monica around in graceful movements to a Glenn Miller song. When night encroaches on their happiness and Taylor grows drowsy, her parents put her between them and change the song to something slower._

"Tay," Michael asks. When she snaps her gaze to him, all happiness has leached out of his expression. There's a crease between his brows that she smooths out with her thumb. "You were humming something. I didn't recognize it."

"Moonlight Serenade," she murmurs. "Mommy and Daddy danced to it at their wedding." She swallows hard and blinks back the sting of tears.

"What made you think of that?" She points to the Reddi-wip without looking at it, swallowing hard. "Can I…?" He waits for her tentative nod before pressing his fingertips against her temple, his eyes shutting with a flutter of golden lashes. They haven't done this very often, the Vulcan mind-meld, and it always makes her head ache like he's digging a fishing hook into her hippocampus. "Did it snow?"

"Yes." Michael hums and drops his hand back to his side, watching as she collects herself.

"Why don't we take all of this up to the attic? Maybe the spirits will come out for you." She nods, helping him gather everything and leading the way back up the stairs. Sam nods to them as they pass her, watching as they head up the attic stairs and disappear. There's no dust like there had been in 2014, everything swept clean with boxes piled up near the back wall. Pink curtains cover the redundant window, the bottoms edged with white lace that flutters on an impossible breeze. She doesn't see anything at first, but then she catches movement in her peripheral.

"Edward?"

"Do you know very many people who would hide up here," the ghost asks. He comes out of the shadows, still dressed in his foppish clothes with the powdered wig and a walking stick. He hasn't changed in all the years she's been away, still the sourpuss she'd grown so fond of. "My God, you've changed." He looks her over, reaching out with a pale hand to touch the velvet of her gown. "I see you were listening after all."

"Your fashion advice must have sunk in while I was daydreaming." He scoffs, but he plays with her sleeve a moment longer before moving back a step. "You're shorter than I remember."

"You're just as short as I remember." That brings a full grin to the surface and Edward gives her a slight smile in response. She's missed him so much these past seven years. "I believe there are others here who'd like to see you." The others come out of the deep shadows one at a time—Matt, Shelby, Daddy.

"Hey, Princess," Nico greets and his eyes are glittering with unshed tears. "How long have I been gone?"

"Six years." His brows furrow and he glances at the others, none of the others offering an explanation. Matt takes a hesitant step forward, brushing a lock of her hair off her face. "What's wrong, Daddy?" She doesn't understand the weird looks they're giving her, she's sure there's nothing in her teeth and her makeup is as flawless as always.

"You should be fourteen, but you look almost twenty."

"I'm nineteen now. Lucifer accelerated my age so that I can keep Mikey balanced."

"Is he the one you used to talk to," Shelby asks. She doesn't share Matt's hesitance, she comes right over to study Michael and Taylor. "He's the one that sent you that snake."

"I sent Eve to keep her safe," Michael confirms. "I don't know how."

"I don't care how you did it, I'm just glad that you did. At least one of us survived that shit show." Shelby smiles, cupping Michael's face and urging him to bend down so she can kiss his forehead. "Thank you for saving my niece."

"You're an honorary Miller for that," Matt adds. "All white boys who look after my family are welcome." He turns to grin at Nico, teeth white in the darkness. "I guess we accept Cubans, too."

"You better accept me, asshole, I helped you move up here," Nico says. Taylor laughs and hugs him again, loving the feel of his arms around her. It makes her feel like that innocent little girl again—no stress, no apocalypse, no supernatural fuckery can reach her here. "After Lee set the house on fire, we all moved into the attic."

"Where's Lee at these days? I haven't seen her," Taylor says.

"Who knows? She and Priscilla disappeared into the woods after Flora was hauled off. We haven't left the attic much, the Butcher's people have been running amok for ages." He still hasn't let her go and Taylor's thankful for that, she's only had Michael for comfort and a cousin doesn't hold the same care as a father. "You haven't seen that old bitch, have you?"

"She and the Witch have been banished to the basement. Every Time they try to leave it, they get violently ill." She doesn't know how she knows that, she just does. It's like when she first turned fifteen and was suddenly able to recite bits and pieces of the periodic table when she couldn't even spell _aluminum_ before that.

"Good. If that hag ever lays another finger on you, I'd have to murder her all over again." She laughs again, tightening her fingers in Nico's shirt. This is how they pass the rest of the day, her family safe and together and sharing memories of happier times.

Taylor never wants to leave.


	7. Darkness

**2021**

"What made you decide to get a tattoo," Michael asks, thumbing through a book of watercolors and plain black ink. The artist is prepping his needle and inks nearby, half of his hair buzzed short while the other half curls under his chin and has been dyed blue-green. It's a beautiful color and matches the _Erika_ tat on his bicep, the dot above the _I_ a pointed witch's hat. Taylor remembers a short, hushed conversation with her father when she was only six and the moon overhead was blood red. Lord of the Rings had been playing in the background, Shelby had been sound asleep for the first time in days just behind Taylor on the antique couch, and her father had been curled up in an armchair like a sun-warmed cat.

"My daddy had this quote he used to break out when things got rough," she says, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. "I still think of it every night before I go to bed, write it all over my notebooks and desk. It just…. _Stuck_."

"Oh yes, I remember now. Constance was ready to pull her hair out by the end of the first year you were with us."

" _Even darkness must pass_ , he'd say. _A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer_. If the world is really going to end, then I want to hang onto that quote somehow. Etch it into my skin so I never lose it." The artist rolls over on his stool and Michael turns away when Taylor raises her shirt, baring her ribs.

"Deep breaths," the artist warns. "This is gonna hurt."

"No worse than anything else in my life." The tattoo does end up hurting like a bitch, but she endures like she always has. In the end, the tattoo barely takes an hour with breaks and the script is a pale lilac that stands out against her faint tan. "Thanks, it looks nice."

"No problem, kiddo." The man, one Min Joon Kar by name, is barely older than Taylor, but he's got a kind smile and she feels a pang or regret when she cuts his throat using the knife in her pocket. He stumbles back with a surprised gurgle, thick blood gushing out with each pump of his heart.

"I wouldn't do this if we didn't need to send a message," she tells him, hopping off the chair. Her sandals make light noises against the linoleum as she comes to stand over him, watching his hands scramble to stem the bleeding. He'll be dead within five minutes. "Witches and their sympathizers will die for taking Miss Mead."

"Er— Eri—"

"Don't worry, Erika will be dead soon, too." She and Michael stride out into the humid Louisiana afternoon, smiling when they find Mead and the new voodoo queen waiting for them down the street. Dinah Stevens looks uncomfortable at the tight grip Mead has on her bicep, but she's smart enough not to struggle. "You got the stuff?"

"I got it," Dinah nods. "Is your boy gonna follow through on his end? I help you kill the Witches and I get a TV program in return." Michael dips his head in a nod and Dinah lets out a soft breath. "Alright then. Let's get this show on the road." Mead lets ago after a look from Michael, but she sticks close as Dinah leads them to Miss Robichaux's. The academy is made of sterling white stone and marble, surrounded by an iron fence complete with spikes at the tops. Where the house in California is surrounded by dark, dead things, this house is surrounded by white lights and a faint sheen of magic. It's enough to make Taylor sympathize with Winifred Sanderson.

"Now go do that voodoo that you do so well," Mead demands, shoving Dinah forward onto the walkway. The self-proclaimed voodoo queen scowls, but she walks right up to the front door and begins the ritual. Taylor bites back a smile as she remembers an old movie her dad had been fond of, then she shares a glance with Michael and they both begin to cackle. "You two wanna act professional? It's time."

"Maybe next time don't quote a Mel Brooks movie," Michael snickers. Mead, normally a stoic woman, melts a little and allows herself to smile. She's a hard woman, but even hard women have soft spots and Michael is hers.

"Time to be serious, Mikey." In front of them, Dinah's eyes light up green and the front doors swing inward with a haze of smoke billowing inside. It feels perfectly dramatic as the trio walk into the academy, following the sounds of chanting girls. _Only light and healing energy is allowed here_. Yeah, and Roanoke is a swell place to hang out.

"Clearly that mantra's bullshit." The Witches trail off, the full table of them turning to look at Michael. Mead stays just off to the side, but Taylor strides forward to stand next to Michael so that they're both framed in the doorway. "Oh, come on, you can't be _that_ surprised to see me."

"Don't be so dramatic," says the old bat at the head of the table. "Your coming was prophesized a long time ago. We're simply preparing." The woman brings up her martini glass in a toast before taking a swig of it, downing a good portion of it just like Constance used to on the bad nights.

"Is your Supreme really so careless with her girls? I told her I'd be coming." Zoe and Queenie are the only Witches that seem prepared, using their magic to hurl glass and nails at Michael. Taylor flinches back, but Michael's gotten fast these past few weeks and he stops the nails mid-air before sending them back at the girls sitting around the table.

Mead takes that as her signal, coming into the room as Zoe and Queenie straighten up again. There are thin rivulets of blood soaking into Queenie's top, but none of it belongs to her.

"Mead," she shrieks. "How the fuck are you alive?" Mead's smile is hard as stone as she pulls a pistol out of her coat pocket, leveling it at Queenie's head.

"Did you really think they wouldn't bring me back," she asks. It's rhetorical and, even if it wasn't, she doesn't give these two survivors a chance to answer. The bullet rips out of the barrel and embeds itself in Queenie's skull, a second one finding its way into Zoe's head next. There's a faint ripple of magic as Queenie falls, but Mead stays standing. "Spread out, you two. No survivors."

"Yeah, yeah," Taylor mutters," I know the drill." The burnt sugar scent of death fills the academy as Taylor and Mead finish cleaning house, leaving only a handful of Witches alive up on the second floor. _They won't be alive for long_. Michael leads the way through the house, but the other Witches have fled and all that's left of them are the ones lying downstairs. "Well, fuck."

"No, this isn't fair," Michael growls. "They can't be alive!"

"So we'll kill them later," Mead shrugs. "Take us back to the house and let's set to work."

"What power is there at our house?" Mead stays quiet and the realization sets in as Michael lets out a gasp. Not Mead's house where they've been so safe, she means _the house,_ the one where the dead dwell and Lucifer has made a portal. "The house…. _Mom_."

"That's right, Mikey." He grasps their hands tightly and furrows his brows, then their surroundings are blurring, changing. With one last dizzying spiral, the clinging humidity is replaced with the dry heat of a summer afternoon. Taylor leans heavily against her cousin, eyes fluttering open to find Murder House looming over them.

"Is it time," a voice asks. A young woman comes around the house, clad in pink shorts and a linen shirt that clings a little too tightly over her chest, several bracelets hiding the track marks that decorate her left wrist. Tabitha Langdon is a different type of ghost than those in Roanoke, fueled by this house of death.

"It is." Tabitha nods, holding her arms open for Michael to fall into. Before Mead came along, Tabitha and Tate had practically raised Michael, they'd given him love and tried to shield him from the dead things that scream at night. She loves him despite all the murders he's committed, the mutilations he's been party to. "Take him to the basement, Tabby. He needs to talk to his Father."

"Surely Lucifer can wait a few minutes." The ground ripples under their feet and thunder booms overhead. Tabitha just scowls, but she leads Michael inside and over to the door that leads down into the basement. "I'll be up here when you're done, Mikey." She brushes a lock of blond hair off his face, giving him the loving smile of mothers everywhere. "It's nice to have you back."

"I've missed you," Michael says, voice a faint rasp. Tabitha's smile never wavers as she wipes a speck of blood from Michael's cheek, like a mother might clean mud off their wild child.

"I've missed you, too, sweetheart. I always will." There are tears in Michael's eyes as he turns to descend the stairs, the blackness swallowing him up before he reaches the bottom. He stays down there for two days and looks hollow when he appears in the kitchen on the morning of day three. "What did Lucifer have to say?"

"The four horsemen will rise tomorrow." They all sit in a calm silence, each of them processing the news at different rates. It's a lot to take in at once, the ending of the world at her cousin's hands. _Here there be monsters_. Taylor, tapping her nails against the side of her glass, gives a heavy sigh and meets Michael's gaze before talking.

"If this Apocalypse doesn't come with complimentary coffee, then I quit."

**2022**

The horse-drawn carriage makes travel an annoying process, taking a full nine and a half days to deliver Crowe and Falls to the safe house. It wouldn't have been so difficult if the roads weren't destroyed by the Blast, asphalt broken up, shaken apart by the force of Michael's magic and thus unusable.

"A motorcycle could have gotten us here sooner," Taylor grumbles as they come to a stop.

"It doesn't fit our aesthetic." Taylor scoffs and climbs out of the carriage with some help from her cousin, the foul air unable to penetrate her gasmask. Their surroundings are nothing impressive, but it never really had been when life was still a common occurrence. The metal spiral, a decoration in a burned-out garden, is the only reminder that a school once sat here.

"Did we really have to turn this place into an Outpost? It's fucking depressing."

"Oh, get over it." Two figures emerge from the smoke, walking from the spiral and into the open air with their precious suits on. No radiation can get through those suits, Michael had made sure of it. He pulls an ID badge out of a pocket of his own suit, holding it out for the two guards to see. "I need to speak to Miss Venable."

"Yes, sir, Mister Langdon," Mead says, nodding sharply. Most people wouldn't have picked up on it, but Taylor can hear a note of amusement in Mead's voice. She thinks of afternoons spent in Mead's kitchen, afternoon sunlight spilling across homework sheets. _Yes, sir_ , she'd say whenever Michael got an answer right. _That's why you're the Antichrist instead of me, you know everything_.

"Tend to the animals." He strides ahead of the others, moving down below the earth and disrobing when he enters the sanitation chamber. Taylor gladly rips her suit off, not embarrassed as she stands in her underwear to be cleaned by whichever one of the guards gets down here first. "How do you manage to be so confident in yourself all the time," Michael asks, genuinely curious. Taylor shrugs and sends him the lazy smile of the supremely stoned.

"I'm a narcissist, Mikey. Having confidence in the fact that I'm fucking gorgeous is, like, ingrained in my DNA." The tall guard comes into the chamber after them, washing them down with quick and efficient strokes before declaring them radiation-free and allowed to pass into the Fortress of Solitude.

"You can get changed in here," the guard says, gesturing at a sitting room. It's a large space that had once been a conference room for the Warlocks, but now it's decorated with softer furniture and the two sliding doors have been repaired since Taylor's last visit. "I'll go get Miss Venable." Taylor gives a lazy salute, already digging through her bag.

"I'm starting to regret going for historical vibes."

"I told you that corsets aren't comfortable, but you didn't listen," Michael says smugly. Taylor grumbles under her breath, making him help her with the damn laces before pulling on the rest of her clothes herself. This had been a lot easier when Sam was around to help her out.

By the time the doors slide open again to reveal the woman in charge of Outpost Three, Taylor and Michael are dressed and have slipped into the oily skin of politicians everywhere. _That's one good thing to come from the end of the world, most politicians have been turned into barbeque_. Taylor vaguely remembers Venable, an atheist who just wanted power even if it meant selling her soul. The woman hasn't changed much in the near two years since the world ended, her dark red hair still up in a high ponytail, her thin frame draped in black clothes rather than the rich purples she'd been so fond of. Venable doesn't know who Michael is, doesn't believe in Satan, but why should that matter? She'll be dead in a week.

"I'm Wilhemina Venable," she greets, standing tall with her walking stick grasped tightly in her hand. "I'm in charge here." Venable had never met with the cousins directly, they had delegated those tasks to the Satanists beneath them, but they'd looked over files and watched the taped interviews.

"Of course you are," Michael says with something like amused pity in his voice. Venable, if possible, straightens even more and Taylor thinks the stick up her ass will snap clean in two if she straightens any further.

"You don't sound like you believe me."

"Why wouldn't I?" Taylor moves away from the pair, circling slowly and putting Venable on edge. They'd given out clear directives to the Outpost leaders, double-spaced and bolded, and this woman still believed she could do as she liked. "Your people are still alive, so you must have some comprehension of how to run an Outpost. It's quite a feat considering."

"Considering?" Michael's moving, too, both of them finding it darkly amusing to watch Venable turn to keep them both in her sight. Taylor hums and comes to a stop beside Michael again, the flames dancing in the fireplace casting them in golden light. At their feet, Michael's shadow distorts and becomes monstrous.

"Three of the six Outposts have fallen and the other three won't last the year."

"If things are so dire, then why are you here?"

"Why shouldn't we come to one of the few remaining Outposts," Taylor asks, tilting her head to the side. Around her wrist, Eve lets out a low hiss and Venable takes a step back. It's funny to think of the fear most people experience around snakes, that instinctual drive to put as much space between them and the venomous reptiles as possible. "Maybe we want to offer a way out of this mess."

"Maybe we want to take people to a safe haven," Michael adds in a voice sweet and smooth as honey. "We've been prepared for a number of eventualities and our safe place, our Sanctuary, is completely impregnable and stocked with enough supplies to last a decade."

"We're here to find the people worthy of The Sanctuary. Our boss is very particular about who gets in, you understand."

"We could take all or none." Michael shrugs, his smile turning sharp as glass. "Those who make it, live, and those who don't end up like our horses." Venable has nothing to say to that, shocked into silence as she tries to read their expressions. There's nothing comforting to be found, just sharp edges and the gleam of malice in their eyes. In the next room, where the rest of the occupants are stewing, the song on the radio changes.

_I know you belong to somebody new, but tonight you belong to me…._


	8. Plucky Sidekick

**2020**

There's a storm rattling the windowpanes when Taylor forces herself into wakefulness, blinking her eyes open and squinting in the darkness. Her room is quiet despite the downpour, her roommate sound asleep and breathing softly against a pillow. She sits up and glances around, trying to spot the thing that must have pulled her out of a pleasant dream. Taylor's just starting to think it must have been the booming thunder when she notices the deep ache in her chest and remembers the pull-snap-pain of a loved one dying. She lurches out of her bed and grabs the go-bag she keeps in her closet before storming out of the dorms.

Rain pelts against her, cold pinpricks digging into her bare arms and legs, but she barely notices it as she hails a taxi. She changes in the backseat, pulling on sweats and one of her daddy's old sweatshirts, cuddled up and warm by the time she makes it to LAX. She purchases a first class ticket and follows the herd of sleepy sheep onto a plane. It's not until she's in a seat with a plastic cup of rum in her hand that she allows herself to actually process what this pain means. She reaches through the bond, traveling to the red strings until she finds Michael, then backtracks only to find that the next string is little more than a smoldering ember.

 _Miss Mead's dead_ , the thought comes through disjointed and out of order. The owner of the voice is in a similar state, falling apart and aching and desperate to the point of murder.

 _I'm coming_. Michael doesn't respond, but he doesn't have to.

The flight is three hours and it lands smoothly at the airport in New Orleans, letting its passengers off without the air sickness that normally accompanies bad turbulence. Taylor slaps her credit card down at the rental agency, going through the motions until she arrives at the rundown down church Mead used to attend.

The priestess isn't charismatic, she's a little batty if Taylor's being honest, but the service is familiar. She relaxes in her seat, steals a couple twenties out of the donation bowl being passed around, and then slips out before the service is completely done.

It's four days before she can find Michael and drag him with her to the church, one of the Satanists present taking them to her house to feed them and give them shelter. The woman's name is Madelyn and she'd sold her soul to bang Ryan Reynolds on occasion, she also drops to her knees in adoration when she sees the brand behind Michael's ear.

The next night of gathering, Madelyn leads them proudly into the church and interrupts the Black Mass. Just like back in LA, there's no silver platters for hearts to be served on, but the sacrifices are pretty as they kneel in front of the church. "Don't let me down, Phil," the priestess is saying as she hands a knife to a large man.

"Wait," Madelyn interrupts, rushing into the church. "This honor belongs to someone else." The congregation turn as one to face the three new-comers and Phil looks more than a little put out. With the hood of his cloak thrown back, he's no more impressive than a toad, sporting a frown that rivals a pouting child's.

"And who is that?"

"His name is Michael. He's…." She trails off, voice breathless with excitement. Taylor will admit that Michael looks impressive and darkly handsome, but she's cute too and these fuckers need to recognize that. "He's new here."

"Even if he's willing to sell his soul, why should he go first?"

"Michael doesn't need to sell his soul." Michael moves forward down the aisle, walking with his head up proudly the way Tabitha had taught him. He stops in front of the priestess and shows her the brand of triple sixes. Gasps and murmurs spring into life, echoing off the red-painted walls. Lightning crashes overhead and the lights flicker ominously, all very dramatic and suiting Michael.

"The mark of the beast! Are you truly the one?"

"Yup," Michael confirms. The congregation all fall to their knees in worship, murmuring a _hail Satan_ in unison. Taylor glances around her, feeling no such need to bow before her cousin. She's seen this kid snort milk out of his nose. The priestess takes the knife from Phil and holds it out for Michael when she rises again. He takes the knife and steps forward as a choir starts up in the rafters, removing the silken blindfolds from the two sacrifices kneeling in front of him. The man and woman both look ready to wet their pants, gasping and sweaty, tears gathering and falling. It's a mercy, really. Michael cuts their throats with a careless grace and they're both dead before they hit the ground.

"Who the fuck are you," the priestess asks as the applause dies down. Her gaze is shrewd and judging, but Taylor doesn't scratch her eyes out like she wants to. She shrugs instead, giving the woman a lazy smile.

"I'm his plucky sidekick." The others stand and Michael holds out the knife. The hilt of it is slick with blood and Taylor takes it on instinct. She's used to burying the evidence, but she falters when she realizes that isn't what he's asking of her. His gaze cuts to where Phil is still pouting on their right. "No offense, Phil." He looks at her dumbly as she brings the knife down, his death slow as he bleeds out on the floor like a pig.

"Okay," the priestess says with a clap of her hands. "Who's ready for this week's potluck dinner?"

**2022**

Ariel's old room is spacious and cold, bland in the way that Taylor's Outpost had been opulent. There's no connecting bath or silk robes, just whatever Taylor had brought with her from North Carolina. In short, she's not a fan. "I'm bored," she groans, listening to the screams starting up from somewhere on the second level.

"You just set a bunch of venomous snakes loose in some girl's closet."

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm still bored."

"So go get high and commune with the dead." Taylor scowls as she drapes herself over a fainting couch, the voluminous material of her skirt flaring out around her. Michael is focused on his laptop, sending out email after email to his Father and the few people who are living in their Sanctuary. Tyler had practically glowed yesterday when she saw Taylor, cooing over how much she'd grown and how proud she was.

"Do you think Miss Mead is still loyal? She looked awfully cozy with Venable."

"She's supposed to seem cozy, remember? Besides, she's been reporting every move Venable's made since this whole shindig started. Apparently the crazy bitch has some spinal deformity and she decided to enforce abstinence to make sure no one touched her."

"Boring."

"Would you prefer listening to Chad and Patrick's screaming fights? Or maybe you'd like to watch Vivien and Ben throwing things at each other."

"At least it was funny to watch Ben nursing a broken nose." Michael still isn't looking at her and she lets out a dramatic sigh. She rolls onto her belly and heaves another sigh, sharper this time. When Michael _still_ doesn't pay attention to her, she gets to her feet and snatches his laptop off the table. "You're looking at _memes_ instead of paying attention to me?"

"They're more interesting," he shrugs. She stamps down on the urge to smash the computer over his head, but only just. "You're such a child sometimes." He grabs his laptop back and sets it on the desk, shutting it with a quiet click. "What's really bugging you?"

"If we brought Mead back, then maybe we could bring my family back, too."

"Mead was only dead a month, your family's been dead for years. There's no way we could summon that much power." She drops onto the couch again, picking at the ratty velvet that's seen better days. She thinks again of that afternoon that had threatened snow, the last time they were truly a happy family. "Tay?"

"I already knew the answer, Mikey. I'll deal." A wicked smile lights Michael's face up as he kneels in front of her, eyes shining.

"You wanna bring those snakes back to life and scare the bejesus out of everyone?" Her smile matches his and they hurry to the stairs, Michael's magic cloaking them in shadow better than any cloak an old man could give an orphan. The occupants are just sitting down to dinner when the cousins stop in the doorway, each of them eyeing their snake stew with varying expressions of disgust.

" _Life_ ," she breathes, Eve tensing and relaxing around her wrist. The snakes in the bowls stitch back together and slither across the pristine tablecloth, leaving streaks of watery broth over white fabric and sending the occupants into fits of hysterics. The pretty black girl, Emily, tumbles from her seat and would have fallen if the handsome white boy hadn't caught her. There's static on the radio and then Harry Belafonte's voice is coming out in a clear rhythm that makes the cousins snicker. Whatever else He may be, Lucifer's sense of humor is fully intact.

" _Work all night and a drink of rum,"_ Harry sings, bright and cheery as the occupants scramble away from writhing bodies.

"Better," Michael asks.

"Much," she agrees.

It's late the next morning that Michael calls for a group meeting, going over the files until the very last moment. Out of the lot of them, only one pair seems capable of creating a new Antichrist in case something happens to Michael. One of those such pairs had been in each Outpost, Sam and Ellison included on that list.

The heels of their shoes click on the expensive marble floors and they enter the library with an air of mystery and magic crackling around them like static. The servants are posted along the landing above while the others (along with Mead and Venable) scattered around the center of the room.

Michael and Taylor split up, each walking slowly along one side of the room until they're on either side of Venable. It's eerie how in sync they are with their movement, Vivien had hated it when they acted in tandem without so much as a glance at the other. The people in this room seem just as on edge as the cousins stare boredly at Venable until she ducks her head and moves from her spot at the front of the group.

"My name is Langdon, and I represent The Cooperative," Michael announces, turning to face the group. Taylor stands on his right, her calculating gaze sweeping over the room. There's a pulse of energy, the smell of old sage and singed rose petals that means _Witch_.

"I'm Valiente," Taylor says with a wry smile. "I'm the muscle." There's a scattering of laughter, weak and dying.

"I won't sugarcoat the situation, humanity is on the brink of failure." He'd practiced this speech constantly on the way to LA, along with the straight-backed posture he adopts now. "My arrival here was crucial to the survival of civilized life on Earth. The three other compounds in New York, North Carolina, and Texas have been overrun and destroyed. We've had no contact from the six international Outposts, but we're working under the assumption that they have met a similar fate." Tyler had been safe in the Bahamas until Michael showed up to retrieve her and she'd complained about it all the way back to California.

"What happened to the people inside," the white boy from dinner asks. Timothy Campbell is his name, all the right DNA markers to create half of Antichrist Junior. The bright side is that he won't even have to be dead to pass that DNA on like Tate had been.

"To quote one of the more annoying roommates I've ever had," Taylor states plainly," they're dead as disco. As far as we can tell, they were lax when it came to security and the contaminated masses got inside to rip them apart. It wasn't a pretty sight." The lie comes easily, rolls off her tongue like the truth.

"Most of you will meet that fate," Michael continues. "We prepared for this eventuality, a Sanctuary here in California. The Sanctuary has certain measures that will prevent overrun." _Yeah, Lucifer would be pissed if his Barbie Dreamhouse got destroyed by a bunch of randos_. They'd layered protection spells over the property, combining them with more hellish ones given to Michael from his Father, and now it'll remain protected well past any disaster. Not even Lucifer's rage could shake the boards and nails loose.

"What measures would those be, sir," Mead asks, still playing the part of a dutiful lackey. "Why weren't the Outposts given them?" Unfortunately, Michael had skipped over this part of the speech.

"That's classified." _Nice cover, Mikey_.

 _Oh, shut up_. She bites back a grin and he carefully avoids meeting her gaze as he continues to speak. "The Sanctuary will flourish and so will all those within its borders."

"And who all is going to be living there," Andre Stevens asks. He's Dinah's son, but there's no trace of voodoo inside of him. He's ordinary and only here because his mother had secured a spot for him and some boy toy or another. He'll be one of the people who die here.

"That's to be determined. The Cooperative has developed a rigorous questioning technique that we like to call Cooperating."

"We don't like to call it that," Taylor says. "It's kinda like when Long John Silvers employees have to cheer when someone rings that stupid bell by the door." Michael scowls over at her and she grins in response. "Glare all you want, Langdon, I'm not calling it that." Dinah clears her throat and the cousins get right back on track. "We're gonna play twenty questions to find out if you guys belong in The Sanctuary or not."

"Is this the fucking Hunger Games," Coco demands. "I paid for my ticket to this shithole and that is the only cooperating that I plan on doing." Michael is unimpressed by the little speech, but he's never been they type to focus on monetary gain.

"You don't have to sit for questioning," he shrugs. "You can always just stay here and die. It makes no difference to us." There's a moment where all you could hear is the crackling flames behind the cousins, then the Tate wannabe is raising his hand and speaking.

"I volunteer to go first."

"And so you shall. The process should only take a couple of days, so you won't be kept in suspense forever. For those of you who don't make the cut, all is not lost." Taylor pulls a glass vial of pills from her décolletage, handing it over right as Michael holds out his hand.

"Neat trick, right," she asks the room at large. "We practiced that shit for a week." There's no amusement left in the room, but all eyes are on the cousins and Taylor _thrives_. She's like Tinker Bell, she needs attention to live.

"If the worst should happen and the Outpost is swarmed, down one of these. One minute later, you fall asleep and never wake up." Michael had found the pills beside Violet Harmon's bones, a half full prescription bottle she'd used to commit suicide eleven years ago. "I know I speak for everyone at The Cooperative when I say that I look forward to meeting each and every one of you."

The cousins move again, passing each other to circle the room and head back for the door. They go to the old headmaster's office, now Venable's, rather than Michael's room, setting up the thick files and a few nice pens they'd stolen off a lawyer's corpse on the way here. It's all just set dressing, making everything look just right to human eyes.

"Send Gallant in," Michael commands. The giant who'd hosed them down two days before bobs her head in a nod and heads off in search of him. "Are you ready for this?"

"Manipulating these idiots will be the most fun I've had in years." Taylor doesn't sit, she paces the room as the occupants are brought in one by one. With Michael's powers thrumming in her veins, it's easy to see hopes and dreams and crushing fears. By that evening, she has a plan in mind; she thinks she'll break Gallant and his grandmother first. With a smile, she summons Patrick and his rubber suit to help her out.

It's all going according to plan until Mead gets shot.


	9. I Can't Believe It's Not Satan

**2021**

Miriam Mead's bones are so fragile that they crumble in a weak breeze. Michael works with his magic to transfer all of her scorched remains into a convenience store cooler, tears glittering on his cheeks. They don't bother with the airport, Michael using his newfound ability to whisk them both away and back to LA.

"Is that her," Sam asks, eyeing the cooler. It's got a garishly red OnCue sticker on the front, but who cares about decoration when Mead is unaware of it? "All of her, I mean."

"Yeah," Michael nods. He strides into the Murder House, ignoring the growing crowd of Satanists and spirits as they follow him down into the heart of the house. He pours Mead's ashes in the dead center of one room, the same room Charles Montgomery had brought his own son back to life in.

"Do you really think this will work," Tate asks.

"Of course it will," Tabitha confirms. "Our wonder boy is powerful." Beside them, Taylor gives a snort of laughter, then tilts her head back in a full cackle until her lungs feel fit to burst. "What?"

"It's just that I can't believe it's not Satan that's bringing Mead back. It's the same dork that likes to binge watch Gilmore Girls when he's feeling sad." She sobers when Michael gives her a look, his red-rimmed eyes draining all amusement out of her. "Sorry, that was inappropriate."

"This whole house is inappropriate," Hayden complains. "Let's get this bitch alive again, so I can go read." They join hands, spirits and humans alike, creating an unbroken circle around the cousins. Taylor kneels beside him in front of Mead, taking his hand and seeking out those red threads again. She focuses on that faint tether, the floating tendrils of ash that slowly but surely form a line that leads her and Michael down through the nine circles of Hell. Mead is out of Lucifer's grasp in a black bubble and she would have been impossible to find without the threads, the red fibers intertwined with Cordelia's binding magic to weaken it. Instinctual protection that Taylor wasn't able to provide her daddy.

Michael's the one that grabs Mead's soul, tearing her away from the light magic that had been torturing her and carrying her with them back toward the faint glow of a bare bulb. There's resistance, Cordelia's magic, but Michael and Taylor's combined magic is more powerful than the Supreme could have imagined. Mead breaks the barrier with an audible _pop_ , and then her body is reforming around her. Ashes cling to her and the smell of smoke will never truly be gone, but she's back and that's all that matters to them. They've got Miss Mead back and now they'll make all those Witches pay for trying to take her away.

"One of them has a human boyfriend," Taylor says with a vicious grin. "He's got a tattoo shop and you know I've always wanted a tattoo."

**2022**

Gunshots, thankfully, are a piece of cake to heal when compared to stealing a soul from Hell. Michael's got Mead healed in five minutes and they spend the remaining fifteen minutes just hugging. Taylor stays out of their reach.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you've got a meeting," Taylor says when the hugging seems like it will never end. "Coco's maid should be waiting for you in Venable's office." Michael sighs and pulls back reluctantly, cupping Mead's face the same way she'd cupped his when they first met.

"The apples will be arriving soon," he says. "Do you remember the plan?"

"Put snake venom into the apples and serve 'em up to kill the people in the Outpost," Mead nods. "I'm sure Venable will love that idea." She looks nonplussed either way, the murder of vapid idiots holding no more value than a used paper plate. "Thanks for fixing me up, kid."

"Any day." Michael's brows furrow and he shakes his head. "Try not to make a habit of it, though." Mead laughs and pats his cheek lovingly before heading out to find Venable. "Are you ready for this, Tay?" Taylor grunts in response, forgoing her shoes this time around. "I always forget how short you are when you don't wear heels."

"Shut up unless you want me to use those heels to turn you into a soprano," she threatens. Michael smiles even though he knows she's not entirely joking, leading the way back to the second level where Mallory is, indeed, waiting for them. She and Coco both smell like Witches, but the scent of it is stronger around Mallory and Taylor's sure they'll have to kill her.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come in." He holds the door open for Mallory and Taylor to pass through before following them in. The office is lit only by a few candles and the fire in the fireplace, throwing shadows across the walls.

"Is this going to take long," Mallory asks, sitting down in the chair in front of the desk. It's a sturdy thing, withstanding all manner of obstacles to still be standing at this point in time. "Coco can't function by herself."

"How long this takes depends on you. Why don't we start with something simple? What had you imagined yourself accomplishing when you were a little girl? I can't imagine it was waiting on a spoiled, inbred toddler." Mallory scoffs and rolls her eyes, but there's a defensiveness to it. The outward opinion is that Mallory hates Coco, but the inner mantra states otherwise.

"I wanted to be a ballerina."

"And now that you're grown? What would you like to do to make Coco pay?" Mallory stills at that, predators acknowledging each other's existence and unsure if now's the time to fight to the death. "How would you kill her?"

"I wouldn't. I'm not a killer." Michael sighs and moves away from Mallory, forcing her to turn slightly in the chair to keep him in her sight.

"I have a kind of superpower that my superiors at The Cooperative adore. You see, I can see into a person's soul, all the dark crevices they try to keep hidden from view."

"I don't have any dark places." Mallory's voice doesn't tremble as Michael advances on her, she doesn't shrink back in her seat.

"Really? Because I've known Coco for three days and I'd love nothing more than to watch her head pop off her shoulders. Valiente the other day even commented on her treatment of you. She bosses you around like a playground bully and you're trying to tell me you've never once thought of driving a steak knife into her throat?"

"Coco can be a handful sometimes, she's an outright bitch, but that doesn't mean I want to kill her." Taylor cocks her head, unable to get a stable read on the maid. It's like looking at an unfinished sculpture, the vague outline is there but the masterpiece is still hidden in the lumps of clay. "She's helpless most days. She _needs_ me." Michael hums and moves over to the fire, letting the flames lick just below an open palm. Taylor's still focused on Mallory, though, trying to find the hidden angle that will reveal the masterpiece, carve away at the excess clay even if it means getting her hands dirty. There's something not right about this melancholy girl.

"Don't worry, you don't have to be pure of heart to get into The Sanctuary. If that were the case, then Valiente and I never would have gotten in. Isn't that right?" Taylor nods only when Mallory glances at her, narrowing gray eyes as she takes in everything. "The old world lived under a set of antiquated rules, but I want a world without hypocrisy. I want to be surrounded by the kinds of people who wouldn't just eat from the fruit of the forbidden tree, they'd cut the fucking tree down and burn it for firewood."

"So dramatic," Taylor mutters. Michael kneels down so that Mallory's slightly above him, one predator giving ground to the other. He reaches out slowly, brushing his fingers over Mallory's cheek.

"I think you're made for that world, Mallory. I sense it in you."

"I want to leave," she says, voice choked. The predator backing down, unsure if a fight is the wisest move when it's pack isn't close enough for backup. Taylor thinks of old documentaries, thinks of why a wolf howls.

"Are you afraid to accept who you really are?"

"I don't know who I am." Michael's fingers trace the curve of Mallory's jaw and come to a rest beneath her chin, catching a single tear as it falls down her cheek. It glitters briefly in the firelight before it drops to the floor. Mallory's voice is little more than a whisper when she speaks again. "I feel like there's someone buried inside me that's trying to claw their way out." Mallory shakes her head and stands abruptly, Michael barely able to keep himself balanced so he doesn't fall over backwards. "I need to go." He catches her in front of the sliding doors, fingers tight around her bicep.

"Don't be afraid, Mallory, I'm offering you a chance to live." Mallory turns and the predator is back in full force, her teeth bared in a snarl that leaves no doubt that the turf war is about to begin.

"I said let me go!" The force of her words, the pent up magic behind them, sends Michael flying across the room, his back hitting the wall with a resounding _crack_. Taylor straightens, but doesn't move as her cousin stands up with rage crackling in his eyes. He takes a threatening step forward, face morphing into something purely demonic, but Mallory is prepared and the masterpiece is almost finished. One jut of her chin has the flames roiling, licking at Michael's jacket and giving her time to escape.

"I need to talk to my Father."

Later that night, once Venable announced a masquerade ball, Taylor finds herself back in Michael's room with her chin propped up on her fist. She's on a roll, infecting country after country on Plague Inc. Of course, once you've lived through the real deal, it isn't nearly so interesting.

"It's Halloween," Michael says. Taylor glances up from her phone screen and over at her cousin. He hasn't moved in an hour, lying on the bed almost lifelessly as the deep slashes along both his arms slowly knit back together. _Aunt Shelby did that after yoga_. She'd lie on her mat and watch the sunlight playing over the ceiling, dappled from the trees outside so that it looked like fairies.

Taylor shakes her head, tucking the memory back into the little lockbox in her mind. She'll take it back out later maybe, a little piece of happiness before she goes to sleep. She'd have to be careful though, the happy memories have bad things attached to them. _Here there be monsters_.

"Tay?" She snaps her attention back to Michael, gray meeting blue and holding steady. It's always been easy between them, they're in sync in a way she's never been with anyone else. "Where were you?"

"In the past."

"Careful, you'll get stuck there one of these days." And it's not just friendly teasing in his tone, it's a clear warning complete with flashing lights and bells. "Come here." She rises from her seat and crosses the scant few feet between them, settling down on the soft mattress.

"I'm fine, Mikey. I'm still here."

"Hale and hearty." He sits up on shaking arms, fresh rivulets of blood dripping from half-healed wounds. Her gaze flicks to the covers beneath them, the way the blood soaks into the crisp white sheets. She's used to the sight by now, but the contrast has always fascinated her. "Are you present enough to contact my mother?"

"I don't know." Taylor stands and paces away, hands going to her head. She doesn't even realize she's digging her nails into her scalp until Michael is pulling on her wrists, his hold supernaturally strong and keeping her from harming herself. "Mikey, I can channel anyone you want me to, but that bitch is crazy."

"No crazier than us."

"She murders people for shits and giggles."

"Tay, we do that."

"She had an affair with her therapist."

"I've also done that."

"She used to fuck her twin brother." Michael actually pauses on that one, shuddering.

"Alright, can't say I've ever felt the urge to have sex with someone I'm related to." When she stops trying to jerk her arms free, Michael relaxes his grip and focuses instead on flipping up the hood of the yellow and red footy pajamas that Taylor has on. "You look adorable."

"I know." She'd found the pajamas in Walmart two days before the Blast, styled to look like Winnie the Pooh and carrying the nostalgia of childhood pre-Roanoke. It looks cheap compared to their surroundings and their normal wardrobes, but it's soft and reminds her of the nights her daddy used to read to her. "Did you see something earlier? Is that why you need your mom?"

"No, I just want to hear her voice." It's been a long while since Michael's looked this unnerved, untethered from reality after the unexpected flare up of power from Coco's maid. Maybe it'll do him good to hear his mother. After all, it's not like he can run next door and chat with her like he used to when they were younger.

Taylor sucks in a deep breath, focusing on her surroundings; high ceilings, immaculate woodwork along the baseboards and making up the desk, the sturdy floor beneath her feet. It takes a minute to shut the rest of the world out beyond the physical, but the ghost is never far away anymore, and she latches onto that link for dear life. It's always weird to be a passenger in her own body, watching everything happen without any real control as another being fills up all the empty spaces. She can feel her vocal cords vibrating in her throat, but the voice that forms the words is foreign; the fluid grace of her movements belongs to the teenager that died in 1994. The only thing the pair have in common is the unconditional loyalty to Michael Langdon.

"Mom," Michael smiles, tears welling up and making his eyes glitter like gemstones.

 _Lapis lazuli_ , part of her mind whispers, the part that's still her own. Her mother had a pair of earrings that were made up of lapis lazuli, she wore them on special occasions and they were special because her grandmother gave them to Monica on the day of her wedding. They were buried with her fifteen years later. When it's over, when Tabitha is hidden away in Taylor's subconscious again, the world around her feels fragile. She's almost afraid that she'll sink right through the floorboards, intangible like the dead things she hosts.

"It's alright," Michael promises, reaching out to cup her cheek. _Solid, warm, real_. She shifts her feet, eyes flicking down to make sure she's still here, that the wood isn't flecked with dried blood or brain matter. _Sturdy, firm, here_. Taylor moves to the bathroom, gazing at her face in the mirror for a long while until she's certain that all those features are her own. "Tay?"

"I'm real?" She doesn't mean for it to come out as a question nor for her voice to be so shaky.

"As real as I am." And that probably shouldn't be so comforting, but when has her life ever made sense? It's been topsy-turvy since she was six years old and it hasn't exactly righted itself in the years since then. "Who are you?" She meets his gaze in the mirror, her sense of self returning in fragments as Michael starts their routine. Ben Harmon had come up with it the first time Taylor came back to herself.

"Taylor Elizabeth Valiente."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"Where are you?"

"Outpost Three." They repeat the questions two more times, Taylor's answers growing surer each time. He dips his chin in a curt nod, approving of whatever it is he sees in her fragile mind. They belong to each other, two strays that have been kicked out before they were ready. Taylor holds his gaze and sees the same thought playing out behind his eyes. _Evil, death, mine_.

The door of Michael's door swings open without a knock, letting Mead and Venable inside. Venable takes the lead, walking stick tapping harshly against the floor until it seems to echo in Taylor's head. She shares a fleeting look with Michael before they step into the main bedroom together.

"Sorry I couldn't attend your little party downstairs," Michael says. "As you can see, Taylor's feeling a bit anxious tonight."

"This won't take long," Venable says. She advances while Mead stays by the door, far too self-assured for someone that's about to die. Michael pulls on a dressing gown before dropping onto the desk chair, propping his elbow on the desk as he watches Venable. This isn't like earlier, Venable likes to think she's a predator but she's really just a pest.

"What did you need? I have to finish my selections tonight."

"We're making the selections now, Mister Langdon. I'm afraid you didn't make the cut." Taylor glances over at her cousin and all seriousness drops away into the void, cutting laughter echoing like Venable's cane had. They can't seem to control it, the laughter bubbles out of them even as Venable develops a hurt expression.

"Oh, I needed that," Taylor breathes, dabbing at the tears threatening to ruin her mascara.

"We wanted to let you have your moment, really, but we couldn't seem to hold it in." Venable's hands twitch where they rest on the silver handle of her cane, fingers curling into delicate claws. "I am impressed, though. I wasn't sure how much darkness you really had in you. Congrats, you passed the test."

"Miss Mead," Venable says, voice hard as iron. Mead pulls out a small revolver, the very same one that had killed Ben Harmon eleven years ago and Hugo Langdon thirty-nine years before that.

"Give the order, but you're going to be sorely disappointed." There's no regret in Michael's voice, being party to cold-blooded murder is nothing new by now. Venable turns when there's no lightning crack of gun retort, letting out a sharp gasp when she finds the gun aimed at her chest. Chest wounds are always nasty things and Venable proves the rule when the bullet shatters her ribcage, sending her to the floor with a pitiful grunt. "I did warn you, Miss Venable." He kneels over her to watch the light fade and then he's standing up to pull Miss Mead into a tight hug. "You're the only woman who really understood me," he says, voice choked with emotion. Taylor holds her arms out in disbelief, mouth dropping open with her outrage.

"I'm standing right here, you dick!" He winks at her over Mead's shoulder and all the mischief there is enough to dim the annoyance.

"I need to get dressed, this dressing gown has blood on it." Mead pulls back and fetches the first outfit she finds, helping him into it and smoothing the creases. She does all this with such a loving touch, smiling through it all. Mead's smiles are always so tender when they're directed at Michael.

"That jacket is fucking hideous." He turns to glare at her, some sharp retort or another on this tip of his tongue before he goes rigid. Taylor doesn't understand why at first, but then the burnt sugar scent begins to fade, drowned out by old sage and singed rose petals. Below them, Thriller changes to Gold Dust Woman.

"The Witches are here."


	10. New Homeowners

**2019**

Taylor is curled up in front of the fireplace when there comes a knock on the door, her sleep-slowed mind barely processing the sound. She's tired, surrounded by too many damned souls to really have peace. The mother in the basement is moaning constantly about her daughters, the maid is constantly sneaking up behind Constance to pour bleach on her dress, and Constance is always making messes.

Knocking on doors is a frequent thing, the twins believing it's their mission to annoy everyone stuck in the house. When the knocking isn't followed up with Tate chasing them down to the basement, Taylor forces herself to sit up, her sheet pooling around her waist.

 _Open the door, please_.

She's up and moving before her mind catches up with her, frowning over her shoulder at her cousin's request. Taylor hates it when he uses their connection like that, but he just thinks it's neat. Still, she swings the door open and gives the three strangers on the threshold an unimpressed look. The trio are dressed in all black, their goth aesthetic made complete by fucking _cloaks_. The smaller one, a woman in her thirties if Taylor has to guess, has a crowbar half hidden behind her back and an expectant gleam in her eyes. If she thinks Taylor will stand there and let herself be assaulted, then she's got another thing coming.

"A crowbar," she asks, unimpressed.

"Can you think of a better way to open locked doors," the woman returns. Taylor bites back a smile, liking the vibes this chick sends off even if it is ass o'clock at night.

"Touché."

"It's not her," says the other woman. This one has a stocky build and a stern mouth, maybe in her late fifties or so. "She's got a touch of his power, but not enough for the signs."

"I have a five-inch stiletto I can shove up your—"

"Taylor, don't be rude," Michael interrupts, coming to stand on the second floor landing. He's in a sweat-soaked tee and boxer shorts, scratching at his belly. Behind her, the cloaked weirdos are bowing at the waist and Taylor can hear the lone dude crying. It makes her want to lash out at them, the part of her that's still a little girl wanting to hurt them for keeping her from sleep. The adult part of her wants to hurt them too, if she's being honest.

Taylor rolls her eyes instead of lashing out, moving aside so the trio can come inside. What's it to her if they're psycho murderers? They'll be dead before they can lay a hand on Michael.

"I am Anton LaVey, Black Pope of the Church of Satan," the guy says as they straighten up. He doesn't quite meet Michael's stare, a deferential lowering of the eyes like a girl in one of Constance's period dramas. "These are my cardinals, Miriam Mead and Samantha Crowe. I faked my death to prepare for this day."

"Interrupt my sleep schedule one more time and I'll kill you for real," Taylor grumbles. LaVey pays no attention to her, too focused on Michael. He looks at him in awe, like he's some all-important deity instead of a goober that likes to steal Taylor's froot loops.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Michael says, coming down the stairs at a snail's pace. "Why are you here?"

"We followed a dark star from the west," Sam tells him in a gentle voice. "The signs are impossible to miss: the temperature in this house, a home built over the portal to Hell, the crows worshipping from above." She sounds so excited, a little girl that's just been told that the Jonas Brothers are performing a concert all for her.

"The omens don't lie," Mead says. "You're the chosen one. We've come to help you realize your true power." Michael doesn't talk for a long time, looking over the three intruders with a morbid curiosity that should make them uncomfortable. They revel in the attention like puppies in sunshine.

"How," Michael asks.

"By performing a Black Mass, of course. You need to eat an innocent person's heart and pledge your loyalty to your Father." Michael's brows furrow and he shares a confused look with Taylor.

"My father is playing chess in the attic." Mead's expression softens as she steps forward, cupping Michael's face in her hands. They're old and lined with wrinkles, but Michael relaxes into them like he does when Tabitha holds him. They're sturdy hands, strong hands meant to keep little cubs safe.

"We mean your true Father. Lucifer." Taylor snorts her disbelief, but she knows Mead's speaking the truth. All of Michael's power, all his ambitions, have leaned toward the dark side of the Force, so Lucifer being his biological parent isn't that surprising anymore. "You wait right here and I'll go find the perfect sacrifice for you."

"Okay." Mead leaves without another word, LaVey and Sam drifting into the dining room to begin preparations. Michael and Taylor watch them from the doorway, a few other spirits coming and going throughout the process. Tabitha doesn't seem to approve of the tacky outfits, but she pecks Michael on the cheek and disappears out into the downpour. "I bet it's a real heart."

"Yeah," Taylor says, rolling her eyes," and they're gonna serve it to you on a silver platter."

"You never know. They might."

"Don't hold your breath, Mikey."

**2017**

Marcello de Luca thought the house would be a nice start; reasonably priced, in good shape, a gazebo in the backyard. The neighbors were friendly, the woman next door raising two children that liked to help Marcello set up shop. In fact, everything was just dandy until he woke up one night to find a blonde girl standing in his bedroom.

"Can I help you?" His mother had praised him for his politeness, but he's pretty sure she'd be cursing him if she knew he was being polite to an intruder. Bianca de Luca had been a livewire and she probably would have tackled this intruder if she were here.

"Go back to sleep," the girl says. He sits up in bed instead, taking in the way that soft moonlight creates sharp angles, leaching all color out until everything seems distorted. She doesn't turn to face him but he can make out full lips and the gentle slope of a nose slightly too broad for her face. "You're dreaming."

"You're dead, aren't you?" She turns with something like shock rippling over her face, gray eyes flashing. "The realtor told me about all the shit that went down here. I figured it has to have a few ghosts hanging around." She laughs, a witch's cackle as she leans against an invisible wall. The air beside her warps, like the surface of a pond after a rock has skipped across it, and then a boy is there.

"Did ya hear that, Tater Tot? Must be a few of us hanging around." The boy isn't laughing, but there's a definite smile making itself known as he wraps his arms around the girl's waist. They both have to be teenagers, just on the brink of adulthood; there's still soft edges from childhood that clash with the sharper image that should have made them both beautiful.

"Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you got an infestation," the boy says. Marcello slides his glasses on to see them better but doesn't turn on the bedside lamp for fear of scaring them off. "Don't worry, though, you got a dead exterminator in the crawlspace that'll handle any bugs for free."

"Cool," Marcello says. He should be freaking out, his brain is screaming at him to call those Buzzfeed dorks, but he's outwardly calm. He's got a handle on this. "How'd you two die?" The smiles drop away, the question a bucket of ice water that crashes through the room.

"SWAT team." The girl doesn't answer right away, her colorful tee and jeans melting away to reveal a black nightgown that's dripping phantom water all over the pristine white carpet.

"I was drowned in the tub down the hall," she says. There's no trace of humor left in her voice and Marcello feels like the world's biggest asshole. He wants nothing more than to hear her laugh again, see that smile brightening up her face like sunshine. "Tate doesn't make good decisions on his own."

"At least I didn't bang my therapist." The girl turns on her heel to shoot Tate a disbelieving look, smacking her palm flat against his chest. "Ow! What the fuck, Tabby?"

"I may have banged my therapist, but at least I didn't knock up his wife!" Marcello's brows meet his hairline and he suddenly understands why his grandmother is so invested in soap operas. He could probably watch these two bicker about drama for hours.

"I didn't kill them."

"That's not a good argument. You've killed lots of people."

"I don't have to take this." He storms out of the room, but Tabby doesn't follow after him. Instead, she turns and perches on the edge of the California King. The mattress dips slightly, but not quite like it would have for a living person.

"How old are you?"

"Uh, twenty-two." She nods a little, bottom lip poked out like she's pouting. He wants to bite that lip, draw her to him and on top of him. He wants to know what she'd look like bare-breasted and panting as she rode him. He's pretty sure that's inappropriate considering this is the first time they've been properly introduced.

"Can you hear the whispers?" He strains his ears, but he doesn't hear anything beyond Tabby's soft breaths and the cicadas singing outside. Marcello shakes his head, frowning as Tabby runs her fingers over her throat. "They'll start soon and you won't be able to leave here."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"In a sense." She shrugs one shoulder and grins down at him, wicked and full of temptation. He has a vision of her in gauzy silks, fire burning all around her with two perfect children at either side and the fate of the world in her palms. "What do you say we have a quickie before Tate comes back?"

The quickie turns into sporadic sex whenever they have a spare moment, that morphs into something a little more tender with Tabitha staying beside him longer, and then suddenly they're sleeping together every night, the sheets draped over them and Tabitha tucked safely under his arm.

They're happy together, the fire in Tabitha's chests burns down to embers and she lets him hold her and she holds him in return. They grow complacent, they fall in love. Marcello de Luca, Marco to his new friends and family, dies in late October of 2018. The coroner will rule it a pulmonary embolism, something no one could have predicted in a healthy twenty-three year old. His body is shipped back to Italy, but his soul remains in the house.

He's holding Tabitha in his arms when the skies turn red as blood and the world comes to an end around them.

**2020**

It's hot the day Witches show up at the house. Tabitha is out under the gazebo with a book in one hand and a joint in the other. She can't get high except on Halloween, but the skunky smell is a comfort to her. She doesn't notice anything right away, not until the house's whispering grows slightly louder, snow on a dead channel.

"Marco?" He appears at her side in an instant, reaching out for her hand. She lets him take it and there's no urge to control how their fingers slot together, no trickle of disgust that freezes her spine. Marco is not her father, Marco is safe. "Did someone die?"

"No, it's the new homeowners." His voice is soft and laced with an accent, not the phony Italian one that people on TV use, but the genuine article. She loves making him recite poems in the dead of night when sleep continues to evade them. "There's something weird about them, though." Tabitha hums and stands up, tossing the spliff aside before striding into the house.

"Witches," Vivien says. She and Moira are seated at the breakfast nook, cups of untouched tea set in front of them. "Well, a Witch and a Warlock. Magical fuckers."

"How can you tell?"

"You learn to spot the differences after a while." Vivien's staring down at the baby in her arms, Jeffrey snuggled against her chest and sound asleep. He's a sweet little guy, carrying that whiff of new baby despite technically being nine years old; he died in this house and he'll remain a newborn forever. "Witches and Warlocks have a spark in their eyes."

"I've never met one of them before. Think we should introduce ourselves?"

"Give them time to settle in," Moira cautions. "Introduce yourself too soon and they might get suspicious." Moira is a young woman today, dressed in the fetish costume that seduces men into her web so she can bite their heads off. Part of Tabitha still hates her, but a larger part is just glad to have another woman around to commiserate with.

"Why are they here," Tabitha asks. "One look at this place should have sent them running for the hills." Moira shrugs, tracing a pale finger around the rim of her mug. Tabitha sets her shoulders into a stubborn line and decides to find out.

"They're here about Michael," Tate says, stepping into the room. Vivien shifts uncomfortably at Tate's presence and Tabitha doesn't have the energy to hate her for it. Tate had raped her and gotten her pregnant with the fucking Antichrist, Vivien's got more than enough reasons to hate this idiot. "They interrogated me and Ben earlier."

"I don't understand why you two are still having sessions. Ben's a shitty therapist and you're a shitty person." Tabitha's smiling to soften the blow to her twin's ego; they may not be physical anymore, but she'll always love him. "Where are they?"

"Office." Tabitha nods and presses a quick kiss to Marco's cheek before striding off into the house. _Behold_ , the house whispers, the name caressing her ears like silk. _Madison_ ….

"Good to know." They're still in the office when Tabitha makes it down the hall, not hearing the faint slap of flip-flops on the hardwood floors. "Why do you wanna know about Michael," Tabitha asks, leaning against a door frame as she takes in the Witches. The blonde one turns, frowning over at the ghost with something like pity in her eyes. Tabitha can kill her so easily, the living aren't nearly protective enough of that spark inside them that keeps them warm and their hearts beating.

"Because he's the heir to our Supreme," the black one says. "And we want to know what we're getting into." He tilts his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing and then widening suddenly with awareness. "You're his blood."

"I'm his aunt." She shrugs a shoulder and pushes away from the wood, striding into the playroom-turned-office. "I was there the night he was born and I've tried to be there for him since then. Someone needed to be."

"When did you start to notice that Michael wasn't quite right?"

"When I held him for the first time and I saw the darkness."

"Right, because that's actually a thing."

"It is when you're dead. I don't even mean it as a metaphor, there was blackness draped around that baby like a funeral shroud. This house staked a claim in him the moment he was conceived."

"Who are you?"

"Tabitha Marie Langdon, I'm a charismatic sociopath with low empathy levels and a love for old novels. Michael's been coming over here every other day since he was an infant, he'd cry if Constance didn't bring him over. I used to think it was because he missed me, but I know it's because the house was whispering." The Witches share a look and Tabitha rolls her eyes.

"I've been hearing a background mumble since we got here," Madison says. "Are you telling me that's this house?"

"It gets in your head and makes you do awful things. It drove Tate to shoot up the high school and then come home and drown me. It punishes people, too."

"How so," Behold asks.

"I used to do drugs a lot to cope with some old trauma I wanted to keep buried. I did everything from Heroin to Ecstasy, stayed nice and floaty right up until the early 2000's. Turns out the house doesn't appreciate it when you buck against the reins for the first time since you could talk. I'm not allowed to eat or drink or get high unless it's Halloween or else I get violently sick."

"Jesus, that's just rude."

"Tell me about it…." She flops down onto the leather sofa, skirt inching higher up her thighs. "Mikey's not a bad kid, you know? He was so bubbly and happy and just all-around perfect. The darkness doesn't let people stay too happy for long, it has hooks and it digs them in until you feel like you'll be torn apart if you disobey."

"Did Michael even try to disobey," Madison asks. She's got a soft voice and a kind heart and those will be her undoing. "Did he even attempt to fight?"

"Michael was taken from this house when he was still a kid, raised by some satanic cult that kept insisting he fulfill his destiny. My baby didn't have a chance to fight." Tabitha sucks in a deep breath and blinks away the sudden sting of tears, taking a moment. "Mikey…. He was so _little_."

"He's not little anymore."

"What year is it?"

"2020."

"Then he's technically eight years old. His aging was sped up two years ago when Satan felt like it was taking too long by human standards. He's a regular prick." The ground rumbles threateningly, but Tabitha doesn't react to it. "You really wanna save yourselves? Find out how to go back in time and stop that bitch Mead from taking him and his cousin."

"Time travel ain't easy," Behold says. "Can't exactly buy a time turner in a used shop." His faint smile fades entirely when Tabitha doesn't get the reference. "A time turner," he repeats like that's supposed to help. "It's from _Harry Potter_."

"I died in the mid-nineties, my guy. We don't exactly get cable in an abandoned house." They're lucky if old residents leave books or movies behind.

"Are your bones buried here," Madison asks, cutting off the incoming rant about pop culture that's on the tip of Behold's tongue. "We could probably release your spirit if they are."

"My bones didn't stay here long. I was buried the day after Constance found me in the bathtub." She remembers that day clearly, the way Addie had collapsed in the hallway outside Tabitha's room with Tate's pillow clutched to her chest, how Constance had buried her sorrow in the bottom of a vodka bottle until she could get a better grip on her emotions.

"Your bones don't have to be on the property long," Marco says. He settles down beside Tabitha on the couch, draping an arm around her shoulders. It settles there like chainmail, protecting her from every shred of misery that bubbles up from her heart. "If you die here, then you're stuck here."

"This house is sitting on a portal to Hell and the devil is a petty bastard," Tabitha adds quietly. "I just wish…. I want…." She can't finish the sentence, has too many failed expectations. What's the point of wishing when all you get is heartache?

"What do you want more than anything in the world," Madison asks. Tabitha's shoulders go tense at the question, a whole list of things going through her mind like the end credits of a movie. What does she want? To make sure her father stays dead rather than wandering around the basement, to see Marco smile more frequently, for Tate to be healthy and happy, to be able to eat and enjoy a cake the size of her head.

"To be alive and far away from this house with my brother and Marco. I want Michael and Taylor to be normal little kids." She wants what she's always wanted since she was five years old and Hugo snuck into her room for the first time, silvery moonlight transforming his face into something demonic. She wants her goddamn life back. Tabitha lets out a choked sound that might have been a laugh. "Seeing as that's not going to happen, I'm going to go torment the ax murder victims in the upstairs bath."

"What if Cordelia could help you," Madison asks, brown eyes bright with magic. Behold's eyes have that faint glow, too. It's like there are tiny lights inside the irises, growing brighter when magic is used. _Michael's eyes don't do that_ , she thinks, then, _but he's not a Warlock, is he?_

"It's too late for any sort of help. Nature and nurture have taken their toll and this is what I'm left with. I'm a big girl, I'll deal."

"But it's not fair." Tabitha stands, fingers itching to curl into fists and beat the hope out of Madison. There hasn't been any real hope in this house since Nora Montgomery killed herself and her husband. Tabitha maintains her posture and doesn't bloody her nails.

"Life isn't fair, why should death be any different?"


	11. Rubble

**2021**

Erika is tired of fighting and the war has only been raging for a few months. "It'll be over soon enough," Oliver says. He's standing beside her, inspecting his nails in the muffled light spilling into Misty's old shack. She doesn't think she's ever seen the ghost sit down before, always standing.

"How do you know?"

"The dead always know." She closes her eyes and lays her head back against a moth-eaten pillow. Tattooed on the backs of her eyelids is Min's face, smiling despite the blood pooling around his head like an oil spill, blue-green hair bright against dark crimson.

"Is Min still here?"

"No, he moved on." She doesn't expect the words to hurt so much, but her heart stops beating for a second and she wants nothing more than to die. She wants her boyfriend back or to join him because what's the point if he's not beside her? They'd promised to stay with each other forever and how could they possibly keep that promise if one of them is dead? "Eri?"

"I don't think I can do this." Oliver sighs and kneels in front of her, resting his hands on her knees. Cold seeps through the torn material of her jeans, making her legs spasm before she grows used to the sensation. It's always a shock to have Oliver touch her, ice cold compared to the humid Louisiana heat.

"You _can_." His stare pins her in place, makes her breaths stutter in her chest on their way out. "You are going to do whatever you have to in order to take out the asshole that killed your friends. Do you understand me?" She gives a hesitant nod, then another, firmer, one. "Kick his ass like I told Cami you would."

"Okay…. Okay, I will." The door of the shack swings open to reveal Cordelia outlined by afternoon sunlight. She doesn't see Oliver, no one but family can, but she can sense him. She's not a fan of dead serial killers following her students around. "Is it time?"

"Yes," Cordelia nods. Erika can feel the build-up of magic, the swelling bubble of it slowly stretching across the globe until it's suffocating. The tension will snap soon, wiping out billions of people in one swoop, a Hell on earth. Erika stands after a moment, following Cordelia outside where Myrtle and Madison are waiting. There are four holes dug in the ground, deep enough to withstand whatever's coming.

"At least I've got jeans on."

"Huh," Madison asks, glancing over at her as they all don their cloaks.

"I've got jeans on. Bugs can't build a home in my cooch." She snorts out a surprised laugh and Erika joins her, neither of them mentioning the hysterical edge to it. "God, this is gonna suck."

"At least we'll be alive afterwards. We can still toss the Antichrist in the garbage heap he belongs in." And really, that sums up all their feelings on the subject. Michael Langdon is garbage and they're gonna shove his ass in a compactor to make mob bosses everywhere proud.

"Alright," Cordelia says," let's get this over with." They all share one last hug before dropping down into the holes, using their magic to draw the earth over them until the gray skies have vanished. Cordelia's magic washes over Erika, soothing and warm like a lullaby. Her eyes close in a deep sleep as the rest of the world begins to crumble, a faint song playing in her mind.

_Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine? My darling dear, love you all the time_ ….

**2022**

Consciousness floods through Erika in a wave, crashing over her and filling all her senses until she's suddenly propelling herself upward out of the dirt. The landscape waiting for her is a wasteland, Louisiana blown right off the map and replaced by piles of ash and moldering rubble. Misty's shack has been blown over, only the barest hint of a foundation left behind as a marker for where it had once stood.

"Ugh, I have a worm in my nose," Madison groans in disgust. "I don't even want to think about where else they might have gone."

"Thank God for jeans," Erika says. She spits out some more dirt, trying to get the gritty taste of it out of her mouth. "Maybe the Egyptians had the right idea. Put me in a pyramid with a few cats and my iPhone when I die. I'm not a fan of burial."

"Same. Hook up some WiFi and my afterlife will pass smoothly." They share timid smiles, neither of them wanting to remember how it had felt under the earth. Claustrophobia had set in fairly quickly, the ground vibrating from the Blast and sending more dirt against them until Erika felt sure that she really would die there. "How long were we buried?"

"One or two years," Myrtle says, pushing her hood back. Her hair, normally vibrant and bouncing in a frizzy halo around her head, has been done up in a series of tight braids and the sight of it is almost enough to make Erika laugh. She's never seen Myrtle's hair in braids before. Erika and Madison combine forces to clean everyone with their magic, erasing dirt from the fine creases of their cloths and setting Myrtle's hair free. Erika's never like being dirty. "Delia, tell me you felt that pulse, too."

"It's time," Cordelia nods. She's facing west, her back to the others as she sends out a faint pulse of her own magic. There's an echo almost two thousand miles away, the familiar warm glow of Mallory's magic lighting up the distance for a brief instance. "Everyone join hands." They form a circle, hands locked together and heads tilted back to use the vague light of stars as a focus point. Teleporting isn't an easy task, Erika's certainly not good at it and it had nearly killed her eight years ago during the Seven Wonders. She holds tight to Madison and Myrtle, feeling her great-grandfather's presence behind her. The magic is dizzying, a string around her waist that pulls her to the next location with no care for gentleness. When their feet touch down on California soil, Erika opens her eyes to find even more destruction. Buildings have toppled, streets pitted with craters, a thick layer of ash covering the ground. There's no trace of familiar landmarks to be found.

"You guys think my skeezy ex-manager bit it," Madison asks, looking around. "I hope he did. Dude was a perv." Erika snorts, squeezing Madison's hand again before letting go.

"Come on, she's this way," Cordelia says. It's not a long walk, their combined magic had carried them most of the way, and it's barely ten minutes before they come across the intimidating fence that had once surrounded the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men.

"I didn't think it was possible for this place to get any more depressing," Myrtle complains. "I know it's the end of the world, but would it kill these people to make an effort and spruce the place up? Maybe some nice daffodils or tulips." Cordelia grins over at her and Myrtle returns it.

"I thought we were on a time limit," Oliver mutters. He's sulking on the other side of the gate and, in that instant with ashes and death surrounding him, Erika can see the monster he had been for the first time. Oliver isn't just the sweet man that had sung her lullabies or helped her with her homework, he also murdered a string of women in the fifties and sixties so he could make furniture out of their skin.

"We should get going," Erika says, not quite meeting Oliver's impatient gaze. "Mallory and Coco might need some backup." Cordelia nods, using her magic to push the heavy gates open and leading the way onto the grounds. The only landmark to be found is the ugly spiral from the garden, a set of stairs leading deep underground into a sanitation chamber.

"This room brings back memories." Erika shoots him a scolding look and he has the decency to duck his head. "I know, bad timing."

"Bad everything, Gramps. Keep your inner serial killer contained."

"I'm working on it." Cordelia glances briefly at where Erika is staring, but she doesn't see Oliver any more than she could see atoms. She raises a brow in question, but Erika waves it off and shakes her head. There's no point in delving into family drama when they've got an Antichrist to bitch slap.

The embers in the firepit spring back to life as they come into the library, bodies scattered around the room and vomit laced with venom splattered over floors and furniture. Stevie's voice echoes from the radio, _rock on, gold dust woman, take your silver spoon and dig your grave._

"Find our sisters," Cordelia orders. The girls split up, each of them dragging a body from the mess while Cordelia fetches Coco's body from somewhere upstairs. They lay them all in a line, stepping back to watch Cordelia work. She kneels over each of them, slowly breathing in their magic before standing and breathing it out again. The three women shoot upright, letting out rib-shaking gasps that make Erika's twinge in sympathy. Madison grins as she kneels in front of Mallory, helping her get her glasses off and sit up a little straighter.

"Surprise, bitch," she says. "I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me." Mallory lets out a shuddering breath as she glances around, Madison backing up out of her personal bubble. "Congrats, you're back from the dead."

"Just breathe deeply," Cordelia says, shooting Madison an unimpressed look. "You need time to get your bearings." Coco wastes no time in getting up, using her sleeve to wipe the blood off her forehead as she paces the room. Dinah stands as well, moving away from the gathered Witches and closer to her dead son.

"I can't believe Brock stabbed me in the head," Coco grouses. "That little bastard had better hope he's dead!"

"Damn, Coco came back with an attitude," Erika remarks.

"Looks like our weakest link got a little stronger," Madison agrees.

"She'd make a great lampshade," Oliver observes. Erika shoots him another look and he holds up his hands in surrender, taking a step away from the group. "I'll go wait in the kitchen." He goes through the walls rather than using the fucking door like a normal person. God, he gets more dramatic every year. One of these days he's going to throw a big enough hissy fit that Nana Kincaid comes down from Heaven just to kick his ass.

"People react to spells in different ways," Myrtle says. "Remember when we brought young Zoe back and she nearly had a panic attack? And when Madison was brought back the first time, she coughed up rot and asked for a cigarette. The perfect antidote to stoke the blood and speed up the recovery process would be a spicy gazpacho Andaluz."

"Or some coke," Madison says. "That always pepped me right up."

"Okay, hold up," Mallory says, standing up with confusion creasing her face. "What the hell is going on? What do you mean I was brought back from the dead? Last time I checked I wasn't an evil high priest with a forbidden girlfriend."

"We had to place an identity spell on you and Coco to keep you both safe," Cordelia explains in a gentle voice. She used to read to Erika with that same tone, love poems and sonnets and the occasional spooky story once Halloween rolled around. "It kept you from knowing your true self so that the Antichrist couldn't sniff you out."

"That's great, but what about the zombie thing?"

"Obviously the Antichrist isn't picky with who he kills." They all take a moment to glance at the corpses littering the room. "He or people that work for him killed you all and we had to bring you back. You're special, Mallory, we can't win without you."

"You're on your own with that shit," Dinah states. "I made a billion dollars in TV, and all I ever did was straddle the fence. I'm sure as hell not dumping that strategy here." She stalks forward, but Erika's been chased by actual zombies so a voodoo queen isn't exactly terrifying. "I'm not here to defeat anyone."

"Just shut up and be happy we didn't barbeque your ass when we had the chance," Erika says.

"You can't help us anyway," Madison adds. "You couldn't defeat a mosquito with your backwards voodoo shit." There's another pulse of magic, a dark foreboding that smells of rot. Erika's nose crinkles as she glances over at the staircase across the room. Michael's up there, flanked by Mead and Valiente, looking far too impressive amongst the carnage.

"As if any of you can defeat me," he says with a cocky smile, drawing everyone's gaze to him. "I've already won." Cordelia takes a step forward, making up the head of their group as naturally as breathing.

"You haven't won," she states firmly.

"Have you looked outside lately," Valiente asks, gesturing around them. "Hell, have you seen this place? We've only been here three days and we tricked these dumbasses into eating poison apples. You'd think they would've learned a lesson from Snow White."

"You'd think your cousin would have learned to wear a nicer dinner jacket," Myrtle says, sarcasm lacing her tone. "At least the world can be saved." Erika smiles at her before focusing back on Team Rocket.

"By you," Michael asks with amusement.

"By all of us," Cordelia says.

"I'm not part of this," Dinah says, taking another step away from them. Erika remembers the afternoon she and Madison had seen Dinah's picture on the side of a bus, the rage that had burned in her gut when she realized how Michael had gotten inside the academy to murder everyone. _He killed Min_.

"Well I am," Coco says, charging forward to stand near Cordelia. She falters slightly, glancing over at Myrtle. "Just don't let me die again, okay? It really sucked the last time."

"When I'm done, you'll all wish you were dead," Michael says. It's a promise, dark and dripping with malice, a poisoned apple in manicured hands." His magic radiates off him like heat off a stove, tendrils of it snaking protectively around Mead and his cousin while red lines of a different sort of magic has tied itself in a neat bow around his heart.

"I always thought the world would end in fire and ice," Myrtle says," not Witches and Warlocks."

"The four horsemen have ridden across the world, the seventh seal has been broken, wormwood has fallen from the sky and turned the rivers to blood and fire. The bottomless pit has been opened and my swarms of locusts and scorpions have ravaged humanity. The world has been remade in my Father's image." Myrtle gives a dry laugh that seems to annoy Michael, his left eye twitching just the slightest bit.

"It seems your darling daddy didn't give you the finished rulebook for causing the Apocalypse. The very first thing you should do is get rid of all the Witches. Otherwise, you're just wasting everyone's time."

"I could annihilate all of you in a second and the world would go on without missing a beat." His words are snappish and impatient, the very same attitude Oliver assumes whenever he's about to lose a game. "Defy me and I'll make sure all of you will be forgotten. Join me and I could give you a future free from pain and starvation. All you have to do is fall to your knees and worship me." He doesn't seem to appreciate the scattered laughter when the Witches realize he's serious.

"Fall to your knees before the King," Mead orders, bringing a revolver out of her coat pocket. If Erika really focuses on it, she can see it in a blonde woman's hand, a slim finger pulling the trigger and sending a red-haired maid tumbling off the bed. "Hail Satan!"

"Why would we ever kneel at your feet," Cordelia asks. "You're just a man, Michael, a _Warlock_. Warlocks have never beaten Witches."

"You raised me from the dead because I have voodoo to offer," Dinah says, moving forward slowly. "You'd hoped I'd be on your side, but if you knew anything about me, you'd know I only bet on the winning horse." She stops in front of the staircase, bowing her head to Michael in respect. She never notices the faint smell of death, the sound of an angry rattlesnake as Marie Laveau steps out of the darkness coalescing in the sharp corners of the room.

"She needed the help of a powerful voodoo queen," Marie says, sidling up to Dinah. She takes her sweet time, hips swaying and braids moving like snakes over her shoulders until she comes to a stop. "That ain't you."

"How…"

"Cordelia promised Papa Legba the darkest and most corrupt voodoo queen's soul in exchange for releasing me from Hell. You'll serve him well in my place." Dinah looks ready to protest or read them all the riot act, but Marie is quicker and her machete is buried in Dinah's throat before the bitch can open her mouth. "It's about time to take out the trash, don't y'all think?"

"I said we should have done it at the start of this whole thing," Madison says. There's a faint click as the hammer of Mead's revolver is pulled back, her finger about to curl around the trigger when Cordelia mutters a spell. Mead freezes for an instant, the spell working its way through Michael's protective magic before hitting her full force. Mead convulses the gun falling from a limp hand and bouncing down the stairs.

Erika knows what's coming, has seen the spell before, and she has the good sense to duck down behind the fire pit. The other Witches follow suit, making it to cover right before the explosion. Gore rains down over the room, Michael and Valiente are blown off the landing with enough force to kill a normal human. When they peek out from behind their cover, Erika finds Valiente lying in a limp pile near the stairs, her chest moving in stuttering motions. Michael, however, is struggling to get his feet under him with all the rage of a wet gremlin.

"Madison, wait," Cordelia calls. Madison pays her no attention, scrambling across the floor on her hands and knees to grab the forgotten revolver. She has it aimed right as Michael stands up, bullet after bullet tearing through his chest and sending him sprawling backwards against a wall.

"M-Mikey," Valiente stutters. She's rolled over onto her side, but she doesn't seem capable of much more. Madison doesn't hesitate, dumping the used shell casings out and replacing them with six new ones. The first shot finishes Valiente, the next three are revenge for all the horror she's helped cause.

"Myrtle, get some of Michael's hair. If we're going to do this, then now's our best chance." Myrtle nods, hurrying over to Michael's limp form to yank a handful of golden hair from his head. She presses the fine strands into Mallory's hand, closing her fingers around them.

"Remember, dear, focus on this," Myrtle instructs softly, pleadingly. "Use it to locate a time and place early in Michael's life in order to stop this future from happening."

"Shed the ego," Mallory recites, standing," disengage from this realm, place myself there and say the words. _Tempus Infinituum_."

"That's my girl." Cordelia spares her a proud smile, but then it's falling away as she looks at Michael again. They all know what she's thinking, that a simple gun isn't going to keep him down long enough for them to finish this. It seems today is all about sacrifice.

"I'll hold him off while you guys find a place to cast the spell," Madison says, aiming the revolver at Michael.

"I will, too," Erika volunteers. "I'm not that powerful, but I've got one hell of a swing." She grabs up part of the splintered railing that had broken under Michael's weight, grinning impishly. Cordelia smiles again and pulls the girls into a tight hug that promises happy things, a brighter future even if they die in this timeline.

"I'm so proud of you two," she says with tears glittering in her eyes.

"Don't go getting soft yet, Delia."

"Yeah," Madison agrees. "Save the tears for when this asshole is six feet under." Cordelia's smile doesn't vanish this time as she ushers the others to higher ground, Madison and Erika sharing a look. "If I die again and you somehow survive, bring me back and have a margarita waiting on me."

"Fine, but if it's the other way around I expect to have a bottle of tequila and Min waiting on me." They shake on the deal, ignoring the air of prophecy that twines around their joined hands. The girls jump in surprise when a man falls to the ground, covered in flames and open wounds. "Oh, what the fuck?"

"Ew, he looks like a plague victim." The flames almost cover up another noise and Erika turns to find out what the hell sounds like a pool vacuum. She watches in morbid fascination as the puddle of blood draws inwards, pushing itself back into Michael to revive him.

"Head's up, Madison!" She swings as hard as she can, the railing connecting with the side of Michael's face hard enough to dent one of his perfect cheekbones. She swings twice more before something in her shoulder gives with a painful _snap_ , the railing falling out of her numb hand.

Michael isn't one to waste time, he grabs the smooth end of the railing and drives the jagged points of it through Erika's chest. It snags on her ribcage and then powers through the bone and straight into her heart. There's no pain or quipped remarks, Erika Kincaid closes her eyes and doesn't wake up.

**2018**

" _Satan has one son, but my sisters are legion, motherfucker."_

Mallory shoots upward with a strangled gasp and tears stinging her eyes, the power of a Supreme and something completely other burning her veins like fire. Blood trickles from her eyes and nose and she wipes it away roughly with the heel of her palm. She doesn't have time for this shit, she has an Antichrist to murder. She uses the magic brimming inside her to change her clothes, needing to blend in amongst the unaware masses. After that it's easy enough to hotwire a Range Rover and navigate the busy streets of LA. She pulls onto the right street in time to see Michael come storming out of a house, barefoot and fuming with his grandmother watching him on the front porch.

Rage turns her fingers into talons and she brings her foot down hard on the gas pedal. She hits him going eighty miles an hour and the tires leave black streaks of tar on the road when she skids to a stop in order to put the car into reverse and hit him again. He's a limp form on hot asphalt, a broken doll with golden hair turned red with blood and his clothes torn from her tires. She hopes he hurts the way her sisters had hurt in that other timeline.

Sensing eyes on her, Mallory glances to the right to find the grandmother and Valiente standing on the lawn. Neither are too distraught; the grandmother looks almost relieved while Valiente seems to be distracted by a pain in her chest. Maybe she'll have a heart attack and die, too. It doesn't matter, she's not powerful enough to cause another Apocalypse.

Mallory shifts the car into drive and hits Michael again for good measure, speeding down the road and out of sight. Her coven is alive; Cordelia's still the Supreme, Zoe and Queenie are still teachers, and it'll be cake to bring Misty and Madison back. On the radio, Stevie's crooning out a song and Mallory finally allows herself to relax.

_Is it over now? Do you know how? Pick up the pieces and go home…._


End file.
